


And I Have Loved You In A Tame Way...

by ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes



Series: Seven Bridges Road [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Caring Greg Lestrade, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt Mycroft Holmes, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Protective Anthea, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Tags May Change, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes/pseuds/ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes
Summary: A bombing at the Diogenes throws Greg and Mycroft together for the first time. What happens in the months that follow will tie them together for a lifetime.
Relationships: Anthea & Greg Lestrade, Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Seven Bridges Road [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834000
Comments: 76
Kudos: 217





	1. City Streets Don't Have Much Pity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Hello! Longtime lurker, first time poster here. 
> 
> I first want to say that your dynamic stories have brought me great comfort over the past several years. I often find myself turning to this community when I've had a bad day, or need to lose myself in something not connected to my "real life." I've enjoyed reading everything you've all written, and continue to treat myself to a few of your works each night before bed. 
> 
> In recent months, I've struggled to express myself creatively with not much work to do, and an awful lot of free time. Having worked my way through every puzzle that I, my neighbors, and my friends own, I needed another project. In a moment of frustration, I opened up google doc and began to type, and this is what came spilling out. I hope you enjoy it, and that it's able to suck you in and distract you from the chaos happening in the world right now, as it has done for me. Thank you again for continuing to allow this incredible space to flourish.

“Christ!” Lestrade yelps as the scalding coffee he’s been thinking about all morning is knocked out of his gloved hand. It seems to levitate in the air for a moment before upturning and spilling down his chest; the well-heeled woman who bumped him rushing by with bulging shopping bags on both arms, and a toddler dragging behind.

“Excuse you!” she sneers rudely over her shoulder, then continues down the street.

 _Excuse you right back_ , he thinks with a roll of his eyes. He debates getting back in line for another coffee before catching a glimpse of his watch and turning on his heel in the direction of the Yard. Hopefully that grey M&S shirt with the only somewhat noticeable knife slash, courtesy of that junkie in Hackney a few weeks back, is still crumpled in the bottom drawer of his desk. He’ll definitely catch shit from the Chief Super for wearing a stained kit on TV.

As he walks, he can feel the steam rising from the light brown wet spot smack in the center of his nicest work shirt, and below the soaked fabric his now stinging skin. Damn. He really needed that coffee too. Today will be nine straight days without a break in the Kensington bombing case and he’s running on fumes. His team is working overtime and he hasn’t seen his flat in days.

“That blonde bird at The Bean finally reject you, Boss?” Sally laughs, eyeing the stain, and handing him a file as he walks through the door.

“Can it, Sal. Not in the mood,” he retorts and makes a beeline for his office.

“Better hurry up. Task Force presser starts at 10...” she shouts after him.

Another eyeroll. Grumbling as he swings his office door open. It’s not even 9:45, and the day has already gone to shit. He thinks of what’s waiting for him at home if he can just power through - a night on his well-worn sofa with a curry and a six-pack of lager, the Spurs match on Sky Sports. Just the thought of it lifts his spirits a bit. _Get it together, Lestrade_.

At least the almond croissant survived this morning’s coffee massacre. The daily pastries have been a bit of a treat to himself ever since he joined John and his mates for their weekly five-a-side. He knows he’s not as fit as he used to be, but calculates that the football and the treats balance each other out. Not that he has anyone around to notice that he’s getting soft these days. It’s been two years since he and Lisa signed the papers, and his dance card hasn’t exactly been full since then.

Though it’s wrinkled to hell and bears a faint odor of sweat, he manages to quickly swap shirts, chucking the coffee stained one into his backpack, shoving the rest of the croissant in his mouth, and tossing his jacket over the top of the dirty grey button-down. The jacket conceals most of the wrinkles, and there’s only a small visible tear near his collar. Brushing the crumbs away and catching his reflection in the office window, he sighs. _It’ll have to do_. Grabbing his folio, he slams the door behind him and heads into the bullpen.

“Detective Inspector, when do you think you’ll release the names of the suspects in the Kensington case?”

He can feel the ever-present headache beginning to build behind his eyes. They want answers, understandably so. The bombing in Kensington claimed the lives of several British citizens including four children. The press conference is nearing it’s blissful end when chimes ring out on cell phones throughout the auditorium. Looking down at his own, which is now buzzing and vibrating spastically on the table in front of him, he sees the alert.

 **BREAKING NEWS: EXPLOSION AT PRIVATE MEMBERS CLUB NEAR PALL MALL**. Shit. The room erupts.

“DI Lestrade, what can you tell us about...”  
“Detective Inspector, do you know how many…”  
“Do you think this is connected to…”

“Sal, we gotta go,” he whispers under his breath, gathering his papers and pushing back his chair.

“Guys,” now on his feet, he leans down into the microphone to speak over their shouted questions, “Guys, we need to wrap this up. We don’t have any further comment.”

And he’s off, leaving behind the scrambling hoard of journalists as he begins to mobilize his team. Barking commands into his mobile and heading toward the garage, Sally in tow. His phone is frantically buzzing again.

This time it’s a text from Sherlock.

Two bombings in two weeks! You no longer need to get me a gift for the holidays. Address now. SH

 _Last thing we bloody need_ , he thinks. He does not respond.

Greg flips on the panda’s lights hoping they can quickly snake their way through the ever-present London traffic heading toward Pall Mall. His tires screech as he narrowly avoids a black cab stopping suddenly in the street to deposit a passenger. Sally braces herself with both hands on the dashboard and shoots him a look as the car’s radio crackles to life.

**ALL UNITS RESPOND. EXPLOSION AT 82 PALL MALL. CASUALTIES AND INJURIES REPORTED. UNCONFIRMED REPORTS OF CIVILIANS STILL INSIDE. BOMB SQUAD, PARAMEDICS AND FIRE EN ROUTE.**

Up ahead, Greg can already see thick plumes of black smoke rising up above the rooftops. “Even the posh blokes in their private clubs aren’t safe from these guys, eh?” Sally says sardonically as she tips her head in the direction of the smoke.

When they arrive at the scene, it’s utter chaos. Small fires and debris everywhere, screaming, sirens blaring, the bomb squad suiting up, and someone barking orders through a megaphone. Small bits of ash and what looks like paper rain down around them, blanketing the street in a surreal grey snow. Car by car, his team arrives, and he organizes search and rescue squads with the PCs and the paramedics.

With a team on his heels and a flashlight in hand, he steps through a gaping hole in the facade and the acrid stench of charred flesh hits him immediately. A large burnt pile of ash, where he imagines the reception desk used to sit is smoldering to his left, and what’s left of the receptionist simmers behind it. Bloody hell he thinks. Inside, the skeleton of the building is somewhat intact. He notes the eerie quiet, a stark contrast from the chaos outside, as he steps over a twisted metal placard that reads “Absolute Silence In These Rooms.” _Ironic_ , he thinks to himself. Around him, paramedics fan out to tend to the wounded, climbing over timbers and limp bodies like some sort of rag-doll horror show.

He makes his way down what used to be a corridor, and comes to a miraculously intact flight of stairs, when he hears a man screaming. Racing upstairs, a paramedic on his heels, he flies around a corner and discovers the source of the noise. Covered in ash and soot, bleeding from a deep cut on his forehead, a middle-aged man is draped over the body of an unconscious young woman, cradling her face between his hands.

“Stay Awake!” he yells at her.

“You must try to stay awake, do you understand? Help is coming. HELP!” he wails, frantically repeatedly plunging his thumb on top of what looks to be a mangled plastic button in the palm of his hand.

 _Panic button. Some sort of Diplomat maybe?_ Lestrade thinks.

Looking around wildly, and seemingly unable to modulate the volume of his voice in the otherwise muted space, the man continues to press the useless button. “HELP!” he screams.

The paramedic is immediately on her knees, bumping the man out of the way. He sways and Lestrade grabs him from behind before he topples over.

“Hey mate, give her some space to work on your friend, ok? You hurt? You’re bleeding.”

Frantically shaking his head, “PLEASE! WE NEED ASSISTANCE!” he yells, Greg winces, and gives the man a once-over, finally settling on his face. His icy grey eyes stare back at Lestrade in shock, pupils dilated, his body listing to the left. _Concussion_ he thinks, _probably had his eardrums burst too_ , and reaches out to grab onto the other dusty shoulder of the posh three piece suit to steady him. Blood is now trailing down the side of his face.

“Easy...she’s in good hands now, paramedics are gonna do everything they can, right..erm....?” glancing down at the paramedic who looks up at him. “Juliet” she supplies helpfully.

“Your friend is in Juliet’s very capable hands now,” as Juliet radios for a stretcher. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get you out of here.”

Suddenly, the building groans and creaks. Dust and ash rain down on top of them, and he pulls the taller man into his chest, folding in on him to shelter him from the falling debris. So close he can smell a hint of the man’s cologne as he curls further to shield him. “Shit!” Another loud groan and the building gives a rumble on its foundation. He catches Juliet’s eye and in a second they’re both on their feet.

“Gonna collapse” shouts Greg into his radio. “Grab everyone you can and get the hell out!”

As he’s scooping up the unconscious woman bridal style, Sally’s voice comes through his earpiece, “Boss! Where the fuck are you? Everyone else is out and this whole thing is coming down!”

Juliet grabs the swaying man’s arm, sneaking her hand around his waist for support. She’s petite, and he’s taller than Lestrade by a head. Together, the mismatched pair stumble after the DI, the unconscious woman in his arms. They rush toward the stairs, the building creaking and moaning around them.

“GOOD GOD,” he can hear Juliet’s charge scream as they tumble one after the other down the steps, down the corridor and out the hole where the door used to be. Behind them there’s a sudden hush, as if someone has pressed pause on the whole scene, before the building gives a horrible groan and collapses in on itself. Billowing smoke rising up like a wave about to crest on their heels.

“Well thank fuck for that,” he hears in his earpiece. He looks up and a hundred yards away, Sally catches his eye, relieved.

Coated in ash like a Christmas ghost, Lestrade carries the woman toward the nearest paramedic, depositing her onto a stretcher, while Juliet drags the posh man, sputtering, coughing and still yelling in the opposite direction toward another waiting ambulance. When he turns around, Sally is barking orders at a group of PCs to secure the scene. Barricades are erected around them and crowds begin to gather across the street.

Eyes closed for a minute, head tipped back, he rolls his shoulders. He thinks wistfully of what his night could have been, and the mountain of paperwork that he’ll be wading through for the remainder of the day and well into the evening. _Bollocks. What a shitshow. Now I really need a goddamn coffee._


	2. People You Meet, They All Seem To Know You

When he finally pulls his keys out to unlock his door at half eleven, the keyring trembles in his hand. _Come on,_ he wills himself and on the third try, the key slots into the lock with a click. Stumbling to his room, and without bothering to remove his now soot-covered slashed and filthy shirt, he collapses into bed. Groaning as the alarm seems to go off just minutes later, he keeps his eyes closed. _Five more minutes_ , his sleepy brain whines petulantly. One eye cracked open, he throws his arm over the edge of the nightstand and takes aim at the snooze button. 

WAH - WAH - WAH -WAH! The alarm goes again. _Fuck_ . He throws the covers off the side of the bed and rolls over. He’s convinced that no matter how much sleep he gets, he’ll never feel fully rested. _Perk of the job_ , he thinks to himself, and not for the first time questions why he chose a career that was all work and no play. 

By 8:15 he treats himself to the coffee he was so rudely denied the day before. He picks up a croissant for himself and a muffin for Sally; they’re going to need all the help they can get today. Swinging by the station to pick her up, they head for St. Barts, where most of the survivors of the blast were taken the afternoon before. Sally flicks on the radio as they wade through traffic, shuffles past the news - no, neither of them need any more of that, thank you very much - past some blaring pop nonsense, before she settles on something soft and folksy.

“Haven’t heard this song in ages. My Da used to love the Eagles,” as the harmonies of _Seven Bridges Road_ float through the speakers. Lost in the melody, and not fully caffeinated yet, he nearly misses the turn for the hospital entrance. 

Flashing their badges at reception, they’re greeted by Joey, a nurse they often work with in the ER. “Hey Jo, how’s it hanging?” Sally asks, giving him a wave. “Oh, you know, same chaos, different day,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. She laughs. Lestrade tiredly scrubs his hands over his eyes. 

Joey brings them the list of room numbers, and they divide and conquer. Interviewing the survivors one by one. Three are still in surgery, and several are still unconscious, so hopefully the few that are awake will be able to shed some light on the attack. Unfortunately, Mr. Herrington, a club member, has amnesia and can only remember seeing his daughter last Tuesday. A porter, Mr. Smithson in the next room remembers seeing nothing out of the ordinary at the club that afternoon, and so the day goes. 

Lestrade knocks softly on the door of the final room on his list, the hinges creak as he enters. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar man in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair, somehow now immaculately dressed in a clean sharp suit, head turned away from Lestrade, his long legs crossed neatly at the ankles. A soft snore coming from his direction as his chest gently rises and falls. 

The occupant of the bed, the attractive young woman he carried out of the building the day before, now conscious, holds her index finger over her lips. “I’ve only just managed to convince him to sleep,” she whispers looking up from her phone. He nods and offers a small smile, casting his eyes once more toward the man in the corner before turning back to her. Her ribs are tightly bound with bandages and her left wrist is in a white hard cast, but she’s typing away somehow with only one hand. 

“Nice to see you awake, Ms…” and glances down at the paper Joey gave him. “Anthea,” she responds. “How are you feeling?” 

She adjusts herself on the bed with a slight grimace, and leans her head back against the pillows, “I’m alright, thank you Detective.” She takes a deep breath, and as she exhales her arm moves to her bandages. “A few broken ribs that make breathing a bit of a chore, a concussion, and a broken wrist. I’ll survive.” His phone buzzes with a litany of texts from Sherlock followed by a call. Decline. _He’s been more off his rocker than usual lately_ , Lestrade thinks to himself, and makes a mental note to give John a ring. It’s probably nothing, but he better check in just in case. 

Pocketing his phone, he nods toward the man’s sleeping form. “He was very worried about you yesterday, your friend.” 

Her fingers pause on the keys and she glances up at him. “He is my employer. I’m his assistant.” Greg studies her for a moment as his hand moves subconsciously to massage a kink in the back of his neck. Beneath her no-nonsense exterior, he can see the worried gazes she occasionally casts toward her boss. 

“Seems more like a personal thing if you ask me," he says, wondering if there's more going on between the two. "He was pretty frantic. Yelling. How’s he doing anyway? Looked a little wobbly when Juliet dragged him out of there.” 

“He’ll be fine. Just a minor concussion and some trouble with his ears from the blast. The wound on his brow is superficial. He has a strong dislike for hospitals so he had himself discharged early this morning. Once he is rested,” she says, giving him a pointed look as if to indicate he’d pay a price if Greg attempted to interview him before then, “he may also be of some assistance to you.” _Strange,_ he thinks. _A strong dislike for hospitals, and yet here he is._ She places her phone on the bedsheet next to her, and settles her hands in her lap. “In the meantime, how can I help?” Grabbing his pen, he begins running down the list of questions. 

\- - - 

“...and about what time was that?” he asks as the chair in the corner gives a squeak. The man inhales deeply and then shifts. His eyes pop open and Greg’s are drawn again to the icy grey. Disoriented, the man’s back goes rigid, and he’s up out of his chair, wobbling slightly as Greg puts a hand out to steady him but doesn’t touch. “It’s alright Mycroft,” she says softly as he reaches her bedside, his hand tightly gripping one of the metal arms of her bed.

“This is DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard. He was the one who carried me out. He’s just here to ask a few questions about yesterday.” The man peers at Lestrade strangely, almost as if he recognizes him, before extending his hand. His voice raspy and while he's not yelling anymore, it's still a few notches too loud in the small space. 

“Detective Inspector, Thank you for your assistance yesterday. Please forgive me, it’s been a taxing twenty-four hours and I’m uncharacteristically still a bit out of sorts. My name is Mycroft Holmes.” Lestrade and Anthea both wince as his voice echoes off the hospital tiles. 

\- - - 

“...and that’s the last thing you remember?” Lestrade confirms. Mr. Holmes nods. From the bed, Anthea taps softly on the screen keys of her phone. 

“The Kensington attack was not far from my residence, and now this. I fear this will not be the last we’ll see,” he says, giving Lestrade a knowing look. Closing his notebook and running a hand through his hair, Greg sighs. “Unfortunately, you’re probably right about that.” 

Without warning, his jaw cracks open and he yawns. “Sorry Mr. Holmes, been a long few weeks and I’m just knackered. You heading out? You look pretty dead on your feet too. Gonna swing by the caf and grab another coffee if you’re interested?” 

Startled, first by the yawn and then by the unexpected invitation, Mycroft is momentarily speechless. Anthea looks up and their eyes lock for a moment. A whole conversation with no words passes between them. “Oh…Yes..well, alright. I do need to head straight to the office, and caffeine will surely be a necessity if I’m to fortify myself for the day ahead.”

Mr. Holmes steps out of the room, as Greg gathers his coat and hands a card to Anthea. “Call if you think of anything else, yeah? And take care.” She smiles, but doesn’t look up from her phone, tucking the card away neatly in a tiny pocket inside the phone’s case. 

Outside her room he finds Mr. Holmes leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, lips pursed, taking measured breaths. “You sure you’re alright?” The steel grey eyes slide open. “Mmm yes, merely a touch of vertigo,” he says as he brings his hand to the center of his forehead, careful to avoid the bandage over his right brow. “It appears yesterday’s events have had some lingering effects.” His voice booms in the otherwise quiet hall. “No need to worry Anthea unnecessarily though, I’m quite alright.” As he pushes off the wall, he sways ever so slightly. 

Lestrade takes a step closer, glancing up with a hint of concern. “Hey, easy. Take your time.” He turns away to give Mr. Holmes a minute to compose himself, and pulls out his phone to text Sally, swiping to clear another seven missed calls from Sherlock. 

Slowly they make their way down to the cafeteria, where they each order what Greg thinks must be the world’s weakest cup of coffee.

“Go easy the next few days, will you?” he says peering over the edge of his steaming cup as they walk back toward Joey and Sally.

“I shall endeavor to do my best Detective. Should I recall something important, I will contact you. Thank you again for your assistance with Anthea. She is invaluable to me.” With that, he walks unsteadily in the direction of the double doors. As if by magic, a sleek black Audi appears to collect him. 

“Glad that one’s gone,” says Joey with a grimace. “A real piece of work.” They watch him disappear into the fancy car. 

\- - - 

Mycroft slides into the vehicle, across the leather seat. He leans his head back against the headrest with an audible sigh. “Whitehall please, Jason,” and the car glides forward. He mentally begins ticking through the file he has for Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. 

Forty three years of age, twenty one of those with the police. Originally from Manchester. Middle child. Two-years divorced from Lisa Ashton - serial adulterer, a small third floor flat in Peckham. Unusually patient with Mycroft’s disaster of a younger brother, which automatically makes the man a saint. He’s known of Lestrade for years, since the very first night Sherlock spent detoxing on his couch, but has never had reason to interfere aside from the small tokens of his appreciation Anthea had dispatched to his door. 

Lestrade is conventionally handsome, Mycroft's brain supplies. His salt and pepper hair and natural tan giving him a distinguished look. His soulful black eyes and easy-going smile have clearly eased his way in life. His concern for Mycroft’s well being is interes - suddenly the car’s interior begins to lurch and he frantically grabs for the door handle with both hands to steady himself, breathing harshly through his nose and trying not to vomit on his trousers. The vertigo makes itself known again. The Audi makes its way through London and as the car approaches each intersection, the light goes green. 

The week goes by in a blur and the Metropolitan Police still have no solid leads. Tempers are short and Lestrade finally relents and calls in reinforcements. “Yes, you brat, I know I should have called you sooner, yes I did get your 37 missed calls, but...” and yanks the phone away from his ear as the piercing shrieks of Sherlock’s violin scream through the receiver. “Childish bastard,” he grumbles, hanging up the phone and firing off a text. 

[12:57PM] Be at the Pall Mall for two and BEHAVE. G

When he gets to the scene, Sherlock is already buzzing about, his ridiculous coat trailing behind him like some sort of gothic superhero. Haranguing Anderson, he’s too distracted to notice Lestrade’s arrival. 

“Oi! Trouble, get over here,” Lestrade shouts as he pulls his coat tighter around himself; the late November chill seemingly capable of cutting right through the thick wool. 

“Oh, you’ve finally arrived. That’s nice,” Sherlock says mockingly, sauntering over to Lestrade. “And what have you been off doing while I’ve been here solving your case?” Lestrade rolls his eyes. 

He’s rambling now about air ducts and construction plans when a black Audi pulls up beyond the caution tape. Sherlock stiffens. Greg notices and turns around to see a pair of pointy stilettos peek out from the bottom of the door.” Legs follow. Anthea emerges from the backseat, flawless in a skirt, sweater and smart black coat, seemingly nonplussed by the frigid temperatures. A glancing hand which ghosts over her ribcage as she exits the vehicle, and the sliver of a white cast under her coat sleeve are the only indications that only a week ago she survived a bombing. 

Following Lestrade’s line of sight, Sherlock catches Anthea’s eye and sighs dramatically. “Lestrade,” he whines, “you’ve wasted too much time and now you’re about to have this case - the first interesting case in months, might I add - snatched right out from under you.” 

Watching Anthea make her way toward the pair, Lestrade turns to the Consulting Detective. “What are you on about Sherlock? ” 

“Detective Inspector, lovely to see you again.” Anthea says, as she reaches the duo and extends the manicured hand not in the cast. “Sherlock,” she gives him a nod, which he ignores. Sherlock huffs, turns in the opposite direction, coat billowing behind him, muttering nonsense about why goldfish move at inefficient speeds, as he summons a cab seemingly out of thin air and disappears. They watch him go. 

“Hello Anthea, this is a nice surprise. How are you feeling?” Shaking her head regretfully, she reaches into her pocket and produces her ever-present iPhone. “I’m feeling much better, Detective, but..” and holds the phone out in his direction. “Mr. Holmes needs to speak with you sir, and it’s quite urgent.” 

_Odd,_ Lestrade thinks to himself. “Ok..Why’ve you come all the way down here when he could’ve just -. ” he puts the phone up to his ear and hears an impatient exhale on the other end. 

“Detective Inspector, I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries. You may dismiss your team for the evening. Scotland Yard is being relieved of this case effective immediately. It will now be transferred to the security services.”

“Mr. Holmes, but...it’s...what? No! My team has been busting their asses on these bombings for weeks. We’re finally getting somewhere! You...how...I mean...you can’t do that, dammit!” Lestrade stumbles, his hackles raised. “You’ll soon find that I can Detective. Contact your Chief Superintendent and you’ll realize that I, in fact already have. No offense intended, your team has done an admirable job. We simply have better resources to deal with this sort of thing. You understand,” he says brusquely, leaving no room for discussion. “Well Detective, It’s been good catching up with you. I must be off. Good Day.” There’s a click, and the line goes dead. 

Stunned, he places the phone in Anthea’s outstretched hand. _Un-fucking-believable._ Turning on his heel, he stomps off to round up his team. “Good Day Inspector,” says Anthea in the direction of his back, already retreating toward the idling Audi. 

“What the hell just happened?” Lestrade says to no one in particular. Around him, the crime scene techs begin to pack up their equipment. It’s only when he arrives back at the office that he remembers that Anthea addressed Sherlock by name. _Strange._ Mycroft did mention the security services. Greg can imagine Mycroft like the Wizard of Oz, pulling the government’s strings from behind the curtain of MI-5. Wouldn’t surprise him if Sherlock was on some top-secret government watchlist too, the crazy git. _Certainly explains why Mr. Holmes had that panic button at least_ , he thinks to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your wonderful feedback. Makes me think I'm a little less crazy for posting these on a public forum. I've got the next 12 chapters written so far, so I should be able to post them in relatively quick succession while I work on the rest. Perhaps once a day? It's going to be a wild ride. Hold on to your seats!


	3. The Wicked Wind Whispers And Moans

He doesn’t see Sherlock again until the first week of December, at the scene of a grisly triple murder. It’s another bitterly cold day, the wind cutting sideways making even the police tape shiver. Lestrade digs deep into his pockets for his gloves. Pulling one out by it’s leather finger, the other hand comes up empty. _Lovely. Guess those are for the bin then._ The gloves were a Christmas gift from Lisa a few years back. _Good Riddance._ He shoves the single leather glove back in his pocket and blows hard on his hands in an attempt to stave off the chill creeping into his bones. Sherlock arrives with John in tow, both looking worse for the wear. 

“Alright mate?” John pulls a face. 

“His majesty has kept me up the past three days with a frankly horrific smelling experiment involving rabbit feet that are now stinking up our entire flat.” 

Despite the chaos that hovers around Sherlock like a cloud, Lestrade has to admit that the addition of John in the madman’s life has been a godsend. John has taken it upon himself to ensure Sherlock is fed, regularly chastised for his inappropriateness, and most importantly - clean. He’s come quite a long way from the awful nights he spent detoxing on Lestrade's ratty sofa. _Proud of the nutter_ , Lestade thinks feeling a little paternal. 

Lestrade and John share an eye roll, and turn toward Sherlock who’s now bending over one of the bodies prodding the stain on the dead man’s shirt with his gloved hand. He brings his finger first up to his nose, gives a sniff, and then slowly brings it to his lips. 

“Bloody hell! Did he just LICK that?” John strides toward him, leaving Lestrade alone on the curb wondering why he lets Sherlock on his scenes at all. 

From behind him, a car door closes softly and Mycroft Holmes materializes with two men in dark suits in tow. For some reason, Lestrade isn’t all that surprised to see him here. “This one you can just have, Mr. Holmes” Lestrade quips, as if the case is up for sale. “It’s messy and we have no leads. Have at it. I won’t even put up a fight.” 

Mr. Holmes raises his gloved hands in surrender. “Detective Inspector, this one, I’m happy to say, is all yours.” 

The suits stop a few paces short of where Mycroft and Lestrade are standing. “How are you feel”- “I wanted to take this opportunity to- ” they both begin speaking at once. Greg tilts his head in apology and gives Mycroft a little nod to continue. 

“Forgive me, Detective. It’s rare that our paths will cross professionally, and while I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again, I did want to come in person to explain. The bombings appear to be a small piece of a much larger puzzle, and something we’re already deeply entrenched in.” 

“Yeah, sure,” waving the excuse away. In the end, it got the case, and the mountains of paperwork that would’ve surely followed off his desk. He studies the taller man. Mycroft does look to be feeling better. His voice has adjusted to it’s normal volume at least, and only a small raised scar lingers over his right brow. He’s rubbing his gloved hands together in an attempt to keep warm, as a particularly strong gust blows a rogue reddish curl loose, waving and swaying like a flag in the wind. Mycroft doesn't seem to notice.

Greg nods toward the two suits who have given Mycroft a wide berth but are observing the pair from a distance. “Friends of yours?” Mycroft turns to look over his shoulder and gives a dramatic sigh. 

“Unfortunately, yes. Just a precaution. There was...” he hesitates, his face a mixture of unpleasantness and frustration. “...what my colleagues deem to be a credible threat made against me. A bounty on my head, if you will. In fact, it’s quite likely those responsible for the bombings are behind this nonsense as well, hence our involvement.” 

Greg blinks. _Holy shit. The bombs were meant for Him._ His mind drifts back to their conversation at the hospital about the first explosion near his flat in Kensington. 

“It’s strawberry jam John! The stagecraft!!” Both Mycroft and Lestrade turn to look at the mismatched pair arguing loudly over the body. “They are still DEAD bodies, Sherlock,” John huffs. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to keep your hands out of your mouth.”

“How you manage him, I’ll never understand Detective Inspector, but for your patience, I am eternally in your debt.” Confused, Greg looks between Mycroft and Sherlock. 

“My brother,” Mycroft continues “is of superior intellect but has the emotional intelligence of a petulant child. That he convinced you to allow him to play detective alongside your team continues to baffle me.” 

Lestrade gapes at him. “I’m sorry, did you just say your brother?” Mycroft smiles - the first real one Lestrade has ever seen. He instantly looks five years younger without the ever-present frown lines etched on his face. “You seem surprised. You were unaware?”

 _Unaware is the understatement of the year,_ Greg thinks. Years ago, he was introduced to Sherlock as simply Sherlock. Like Madonna or Ronaldo, he figured the single moniker was another one of Sherlock’s dramatic flourishes. It never occurred to Lestrade until this very moment that he didn’t actually know the man’s last name. “ Yes, but so many things make sense now,” says Lestrade, remembering the baskets of posh groceries, and cheeses that used to mysteriously arrive at his flat following Sherlock’s monthly detoxes, and how quickly he bolted when he saw Anthea at the Pall Mall scene. He'd have to squint to find similarities between the two. In his mind, Sherlock is like the Tasmanian devil, swirling and wild, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. By contrast, everything he knows about Mr. Holmes conjures a chess piece. Stoic and strong, every move calculated and measured. 

Turning to face Mycroft again, Lestrade eyes his security skeptically, and tentatively reaches out. A hand landing lightly on Mycroft’s right bicep. Lestrade doesn’t know the man well, but the knowledge that he’s Sherlock’s brother makes him feel some sort of unexpected kinship. “But back to the bombings, Mr. Holmes. You could have died! Nearly did that day at the club. How are you feeling by the way?” 

Surprised by the contact, Mycroft stiffens, glancing down at the unfamiliar weight on his arm. It’s been a very long time since someone handled him bodily and he’s been in Lestrade’s callused hands twice in as many months. He stares at his companion for a moment before responding. 

“Fine now, thank you. I’m flattered by your concern, Detective Inspector, but there’s really nothing to worry about. No more than a minor inconvenience, I hope. My team has the situation well in hand.” He says, taking a minute step back. 

“‘S’ Greg,” Lestrade offers awkwardly as he drops his hand. “I think we can forgo the titles now, at least on my end. Call me Greg.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Very well, Gregory. Then you may call me Mycroft.”

Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty, Mycroft appears to open his mouth to speak and then quickly changes his mind. “Go on,” Greg encourages him. “What’s up?” 

Mycroft clears his throat. “I have to leave the country in a week for a trip of an unspecified length. Now that you’re aware of my relation to Sherlock, I was wondering if I might be able to ask a favor.” Lestrade tilts his head a bit indicating Mycroft should continue. 

“He’s been struggling of late, as I’m sure both you and John have noticed. Would you mind keeping me updated on his state of mind while I’m away?” 

“‘Course," Lestrade says easily, as if Mycroft is asking for a pen. "I’ll keep an eye on him. Easy enough. I’d ask for your details, but I’m sure your assistant already has mine, along with my service record and probably what I ate for breakfast.” 

This time it’s Mycroft who rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, very well. I happen to hold a very minor position in Her Majesty’s government.” Greg’s lips quirk. “Sure you do,” he says, eyeing Mycroft's security detail. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft says, his lips curling into an infinitesimal smile. “I’ll be in touch,” he says as he holds out his leather gloved hand for Greg to shake, which Greg takes in his bare one. Mycroft heads back in the direction of his car, the two suits a few feet behind. 

“Mycroft,” Greg calls out, stopping him in his tracks. “Be careful, yeah? These guys seem like they’re no joke.” Mycroft regards him for a moment before offering a small nod, and taking his leave.


	4. Friends and Relations Send Salutations

_ Nope. Just no. No to whatever that is, it can wait,  _ he says to himself as he hears his inbox ping on his way out the door. He’s already throwing his arms into the sleeves of his coat, his mind on the pasta he’s planning to reheat for dinner. Hand on the light switch, something makes him hesitate. It may be those lab results he’s been waiting for. The ones that would finally seal the deal on that the triple murder, and he should probably get them now since he won’t be in tomorrow. 

It’s his turn to be off the rota this year on Christmas, having taken the past three Christmas shifts so his team could be with their families. In their last year of marriage, Lisa had fucked off to Spain on a “holiday girls trip,” which he later found out was really some guy named Nathan, leaving Greg no other option but work if he didn’t want to sit home alone. Since then, it’s become sort of an unofficial tradition. Until Sally found out. Once she realized what he was up to, she made a huge fuss and forced him to take the time off. 

With a groan, he sits back down at his desk, still wearing his coat.  _ Unknown Sender _ . For some reason seeing the words in his inbox makes his heart beat a little bit faster. He’s admittedly curious to learn more about the mysterious Mr. Holmes. Their email exchanges to date have been short and to the point, so he hasn’t been able to draw the man any further out of his shell. But he prides himself on his ability to disarm people, both physically and emotionally. Both valuable skills in his line of work. 

From: <<Unknown Sender>>

To: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

Tuesday, December 24th, 2019 4:01AM

Subject: Re: S Update

_ Gregory,  _

_ A Happy Christmas to you as well.  _

_ I appreciate you taking the time to update me on Sherlock these past two weeks. That his daily trips to Hackney continue is disturbing news at best. All sorts of unsavory characters and significant temptations to be found there.  _

_ The holiday season tends to have an adverse effect on him. I’m sure he’ll be in an even worse state when he returns from visiting our parents. I’d appreciate it if you continued to monitor him until I return. It appears that despite my best efforts over the years, the drugs and his black moods continue to find him one way or another.  _

_ Unfortunately, I do not yet know when I will be back. I apologize again for the imposition. I know he is not your cross to bear.  _

_ Please also convey my apologies to John and let him know that Anthea will arrange for the replacement of their drapes upon our return.  _

_ MH _

He thinks of Mycroft somewhere on the other side of the world. The timestamp on his email reads 4:01AM. He wonders if the man is just now going to sleep, or for some ungodly reason has just woken up to start his day. His past few emails have been brief, and this one a little more maudlin than the rest. Greg wonders if he gets any time to himself on these trips.  _ What a miserable way to spend the holiday. _

He understands that to Mycroft, looking after Sherlock might appear to be an enormous imposition to someone who isn’t his family. When he thinks about it, Greg knows he would have done it anyway. He knows the silly sod is temperamental on his good days, but he’s had enough experience with him to know his tells when he’s beginning to fall off the wagon. 

He wishes Mycroft wouldn’t worry about that, or get down on himself. Dealing with any addiction is challenging, and Sherlock really has come a long way. Though he can’t be sure, based on what he’s seen the last few weeks, Greg imagines much of that is likely attributed to Mycroft’s unique brand of behind the scenes support. He tells him as much in his response. 

From: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

To: <<Unknown Sender>>

Monday, December 23, 10:12 PM

Subject: Re: S Update

_ Happy to continue to look after him, Mycroft. Really, it’s no trouble. He’s become like a kid brother to me after all these years. He’s annoying, and yeah, he makes me crazy - but underneath all of the blustering, he is a good man. I firmly believe that. Loses his way every now and then, sure, but he’s got you, john and me to nudge (or shove) him back on track. Your support is definitely a big part of how far he’s come, whether he recognizes it or not. Please don’t let yourself think otherwise.  _

_ Maybe a weekend with the family will be just what he needs?  _

_ Seems like you’re busy saving the world, sending emails at 4AM. Are you just waking up or just getting in for the night? Hope you at least have time for a decent Christmas pudding wherever you are.  _

_ Greg _

Just as Mycroft is stepping out of the shower, his email notification goes. Toweling off he wraps the waffled plush hotel bathrobe around his shoulders, cinching the tie at his waist. He’ll allow himself this little indulgence for an hour while he checks his email before stepping into his three-piece for another day of tedious meetings with the Indonesians. He pours himself a cup of steaming coffee from the cafetiere on the table, where room service has laid out his yogurt and berries, and sits down at his computer. He’s surprised to find that Gregory hasn’t left the office yet, his Scotland Yard signature still appearing at the foot of his email. He reads Gregory’s note slowly, savoring his coffee, both hands wrapped around the warmth of the porcelain cup. 

_ Unusual, _ he thinks. Gregory is being kind, and seems to be trying to reassure him? He tries to dissect the motive behind it. He doesn’t owe Mycroft anything, and it doesn’t seem like he’s angling for something from Mycroft in return. He can count on one hand the number of times any of his associates stopped to consider his feelings, much less try to do something about them. Really, when he thinks about it, it’s usually just Anthea who mothers him constantly. Inexplicably, he feels a warmth bloom in his chest. 

The ping of three more emails arriving in quick succession from colleagues who also appear to be starting their day prompts him to type out a rushed response to Greg.

From: <<Unknown Sender>>

To: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

Tuesday, December 24th, 2019 4:43AM 

Re: S Update 

_ Gregory,  _

_ I don’t know what my brother has done to deserve your support, but I want you to know how immensely grateful I am that you’ve taken him under your wing. It is beyond my comprehension that he could forge a significant relationship with another person at all, much less elicit such loyalty and care.  _

_ That being said, I see you’ve never met our parents if you think a weekend with them could be in any way restorative.  _

_ Apologies but I have a full day of meetings ahead. Alas, not a Christmas pudding in sight. _

_ MH _

Greg wakes with the late morning sun. Judging by the shadows on the wall, it must’ve gone ten some time ago. He throws his arms over his head for a full body stretch, and notes that he feels well rested for the first time in a month.  _ Maybe I’ll go for a little run and then do a proper fry-up this morning. Merry Christmas to me!  _ Pulling his phone off the bedside table by tugging the cord toward him, he opens his inbox out of habit. 

Mycroft’s day begins bloody early then. Sheesh now he feels even worse for the poor man. And no Christmas pudding to boot. A shame! He’s in a good mood, so he quickly fires a teasing note back before he’s had time to think about it. 

From: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

To: <<Unknown Sender>>

Tuesday, December 24, 10:37 AM

Re: S Update 

_ Christmas without a proper pudding is a crime, Mr. Holmes. Will have to report you to the Yard. I imagine you’re powerful enough to just conjure one? Or at least send one of your suits out to grab one for you?  _

Greg’s mobile pings before he’s had a chance to put it down. He reads the message and his lips quirk into a small smile. 

From: <<Unknown Sender>>

To: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

Tuesday, December 24th, 2019 4:38 PM 

Re: S Update 

_ Sadly, even my powers have limits.  _

MH

\- - 

  
Two days shy of the New Year, an exhausted Mycroft arrives at his flat. Bleary-eyed from his journey, he nearly trips over the small parcel waiting outside his door. The simple white box is wrapped in red string, a hang-tag dangling off the side. He peers down at it and doesn’t recognize the bakery’s insignia but can smell the honey and orange through the cardboard. His mouth waters and he flips over the tag.  _ Not a proper Xmas without one. G _


	5. 'Cause I'm Already Gone

By the end of January, Sherlock’s spirits appear to have lifted. He’s still harassing Lestrade for “a good murder,” but his trips to Hackney have ceased. Even London’s criminal class appears to be taking a vacation after an uptick in petty theft, and booze-fueled fights over the holidays. 

Save a short and sweet note from Mycroft thanking Greg for the struffoli upon his return, he doesn’t hear from the man until the morning of the 29th when his phone chimes with a text from “Blocked”.

[11:03AM] Sherlock seems to be back to his usual self. I believe I have you to thank. Can I interest you in a drink to show my appreciation? MH

 _Of course his number is blocked,_ Greg thinks. He had to bribe Sherlock with two cold cases to get him to agree to drop off the box of pastries at Mycroft’s after Christmas. His actual Kensington address, apparently an “issue of national security.”

[11:05AM] Glad to hear it. Yes to drinks! Would be nice to say hello - it’s been a while. Let me know when and where. G 

[11:06AM] Lovely. I’ll have a car sent for you tomorrow at 7 if that suits? MH

[11:08AM] Sure. Sounds great!. G 

Mycroft moves to place his phone back on his desk when it buzzes again. 

[11:09AM] Good day so far? G

He’s not sure what to make of that. His text messages are typically reserved for updates on negotiations from his team or direct orders dispatched by his powerful thumbs. He isn’t one to “chat” and certainly not about his workday. He finds himself unsure of how to respond other than with “It’s perfectly adequate,” which he feels is an accurate assessment of a day that includes foiling of a fairly unsophisticated terror plot, and two pointless phone calls with the PM before noon. Apparently, Gregory isn’t put off by his formality, and Mycroft’s phone continues to buzz periodically throughout the afternoon. As someone who works in diplomatic relations, he does have impeccable manners and knows that not keeping up with his end of a conversation would be rude, so he attempts to keep pace with Gregory, ping ponging answers back and forth throughout the day. Finding himself unexpectedly enjoying their banter, Mycroft catches himself smiling down at the device in his hands. Then Gregory gets called in on a case. 

The next day, Mycroft’s appointment book is filled to the brim. He bounces from meeting to teleconference to lunch with Luca Ferraro, his counterpart from Italian Intelligence, back to the office for more meetings. He’s surprised to find himself looking forward to his last appointment of the day. He knows Gregory’s usual “drinks” occur around a loud sticky bar with a tv blaring the football game, so this evening he hopes to offer him something a little different - a tasting of rare whiskies from his personal collection. He finds himself hoping that Gregory will be impressed. _Odd._ He entertains regularly and while he’s incredibly attentive to the details, the enjoyment of his guests often isn't at the forefront of his mind. To his credit, they’re not usually there to enjoy themselves either. The dressed up occasions, merely another office environment where they can negotiate some transaction or backroom deal. 

At 6:50 that evening, Greg wonders what he’s getting himself into. Mycroft doesn’t seem like the type of bloke to hit his local for a few pints, so he assumes wherever they’re going, at least the drinks will be good. Just in case, he’s worn his best suit to the office today, anticipating not having enough time to make it home and back after work. It’s been ages since he’s been out for “drinks” with anyone but John or his football mates. Hasn’t been on a date in god knows how long. It’s decidedly not that kind of drink, he reminds himself again as he grabs his coat and heads for the door. _Not even sure which way Mycroft swings,_ he thinks. _Where did that come from?_ Greg himself tends to fall for “hearts before parts”. The sex that follows is often an afterthought, but it’s been ages since he’s seen “parts” of anyone at all. 

Standing outside waiting for the car, he thinks about the man he’s about to meet. Mycroft is unusual-looking. Distinguished and attractive in a posh, Shakespearean sort of way. In their brief conversations, he’s given no indication of his relationship status, though his concern for his assistant after the bombing, and in the hospital afterward may be a hint. _The ring he wears is on the wrong hand though,_ his brain helpfully supplies. _God you’re desperate, Lestrade. It’s a simple “thank you” drink._

As the illuminated numbers on his phone screen flip from 6:59 to 7:00, he looks around for the familiar black Audi, expecting it to glide to a stop at that very minute inches from his feet. When it doesn’t, he’s a little surprised. Mycroft strikes him as the kind of person to be annoyingly punctual. By 7:07, he shoots a quick text to Mycroft to make sure he’s in the right spot. 

[7:07PM] Outside the front of the yard steps. Am I in the right place? G 

And then a few minutes later...

[7:13PM] We still on? We can reschedule if tonight’s no good. G

Greg tries the blocked number but the call doesn’t connect. He’s never actually dialed the number before, recalling Anthea handing over hers the only time he’d actually spoken to Mycroft on the phone. 

[7:22 PM] Mycroft - a little worried now. Everything alright? 

Mycroft’s phone buzzes with the third incoming text. He can see it light up each time, but can’t reach it. It’s fallen out of his bound hands and wedged itself underneath the passenger seat. He thinks back to earlier in the evening when he’d managed to convince his security detail that they need not accompany him home from the office for drinks at his own residence. That he’d be safe in the hands of the very capable Detective Inspector. He thinks of Gregory waiting outside for the car, and hopes that the policeman thinks highly enough of him to know that he would never stand him up. That something was wrong. The vehicle he’s in bounces over what feels like cobblestones. _Still in London then_. His eyes are getting heavy. 

Greg tries the number one more time, before giving up and calling Sherlock.

“What Lestrade?” Sherlock’s irritation drips through the receiver. “Listen, Sherlock, I was supposed to meet your brother for a drink tonight...”

“You what? Mycroft doesn't do “drinks,” he says with a sneer. 

“Well, that may be, but we did have plans this evening of his own making, and he never showed. I’m a bit worried.” 

“Nonsense, Graham. He probably got distracted by a wayward cabinet minister or a passing dessert trolly. Go home Lestrade.” Then suddenly, he hears the dial tone in his ear. 

Sighing, Greg turns in the direction of the tube. _Oh well,_ he thinks. _That was a bust._

Somewhere in London, Mycroft Holmes is slipping into unconsciousness; the sedative already coursing through his veins. Bound at the wrists and ankles with thick ropes, his head lolls to one side and he tries fruitlessly to pry his eyes open. In the rear view mirror, his captor observes the man with a smile. “Got him,” he says into his earpiece. 

\- - 

It’s nearing 11PM when his phone buzzes. “Blocked” again. Greg’s free nights are few and far between and this one has been decidedly wasted, so he’s a bit annoyed that Mycroft is just getting back to him now when they had plans for 7. “Hey Mycroft,” he says, irritation obvious in his voice. 

“Detective Inspector, it’s Anthea,” she says. She sounds harried. “Oh Anthea, hey. What can I do for you?” 

“Mycroft’s security said he hasn’t checked in with them in several hours. I hate to interrupt your evening, but can you just confirm for me that he’s still with you?” 

_Still with me? Why would he be…_ Oh. Greg suddenly understands the insinuation and pushes himself up to a sitting position on his couch. “No, no he’s not here. He no-showed for our drinks actually. He was supposed to pick me up round 7 and he never came. Figured he got called in...or...or something," he finishes awkwardly. "Texted him a few times but never heard back.”

“Shit” she swears down the line. “Let me know if you hear from him.” And then the call cuts off. Minutes later he realizes that he has no way to get in touch with her. 

\- - 

Somewhere in London, Mycroft drifts back to consciousness. The first thing he feels is the stinging cold of concrete against his skin. Naked, he realizes, as his whole body is wracked with a shiver. Freezing. His head is pounding and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. _Don’t panic,_ he wills himself. _You’ve been trained for this. They’re already looking for you. Deep breaths._ He moves his limbs experimentally. The rope bindings on his wrists and ankles have been replaced with metal chains. They’re tight and digging into his skin. He’s just so tired and everything feels so heavy. _Sedative_? His eyes are closing again. He blinks blearily and tries to catalogue his surroundings the way he was taught. Alone. Metal box. No windows. Cold. Damp. _Shipping container_ his brain supplies. The last thing he notices is the sound of something dripping nearby, before he sinks again into a chemical slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you seem to be liking it so far. Things are about to get intense! Hold on to your hats!


	6. It's Hard To Tell The Night Time From The Day

When he wakes again hours later, it’s to the sound of whispered voices and the -plink! plink! plink!- of the dripping thing which must be located somewhere outside the room. Cracking one eyelid so as not to alert his captors, he scans the small space. He recognizes the men speaking quietly in the opposite corner as those who abducted him. Their Irish lilt easily discernible.

As the fog in his mind clears, he feels the familiar chill of the concrete on his arms and legs. Still naked, and in a futile effort to keep warm and maintain his dignity, he curls into a ball, wrapping his hands over his knees and tucking his feet under himself. He’s still bound at the wrists and ankles, the shackle attached to a d-ring in the wall. The sound of the chains scraping the concrete as he moves makes his captors heads turn. They stare for a moment, and then without a word they exit, leaving him behind. There is dark sky beyond the door, a gust of frigid winter air as it slams shut. 

Searching his mind, Mycroft can’t seem to come up with a diplomatic reason why the Irish would be behind this whole situation. The bombs may be a nod to their troubled history but this kidnapping scenario seems absurd. He just saw McFarland two weeks prior at the summit in Indonesia, and while they didn’t have business to discuss, they were cordial to each other as always. He actually liked the man. His heart falls as he realizes the leads his team has been following for the past few months since the Kensington bombing will never lead them here; the Irish never on their radar. 

A sudden shiver wracks his frame. He knows that taking his clothes is a power move, meant to unsettle him. Loath as he is to admit it, it’s working. He’s never been one to be comfortable in the nude. Field work in his younger days is responsible for the now faint scars, visible on his six foot frame. A knife wound near his right hip. Bullet wounds on his shoulder. Cigarette burns on his back. While his brain is often vastly more agile than his counterparts, his body is not built for speed nor strength. If anything, his words and clothes are his armor, meant to deter anyone from getting too close. It’s worked for nearly his entire professional life, and has had the unintended consequence of doing the same for any semblance of a personal one. His few casual exchanges with Gregory were the first of their kind in years outside of professional niceties. 

He thinks of Gregory and the fragile, budding friendship they were beginning to build. It brings him a momentary peace, thinking of the ease of their messages earlier in the week. Gregory had been slowly drawing him out of his comfort zone and he’s surprised to realize that he doesn’t mind. The man has a way of disarming people. A breezy lightheartedness mixed with a sprinkling of self-deprecation that made Mycroft feel like he couldn't misstep, couldn't say the wrong thing. 

He’s snapped out of his reverie as the metal door swings open and an imposing bald man in dark pants and a black sweater meanders in holding a small box and a photo in a frame. “Monsieur Holmes, I have been anticipating zis for quite some time,” the man says, as he steps forward into the faint light; a trace of excitement in the heavily accented english. _Not the Irish then,_ Mycroft thinks. Hovering over Mycroft’s naked frame, the man's eyes scan his body, taking him in. Mycroft stares straight back. He’s at a disadvantage and it's hard not to squirm under the bald man's predatory gaze, but he needs to project confidence. Through the fog of the drugs, his training is kicking in. 

“The sight of you! It is quite ze thrill, no? To get zis close...” He says curiously as if Mycroft is some sort of rare safari animal. “I have been watching you for a long period of time, you see?” Upturning the box and pouring it’s contents on top of Mycroft. 

Hundreds of images flutter around him, brushing his shoulders and legs as they float softly to the ground. He catches a glimpse of himself walking with Anthea outside the American Embassy, another of him at a crime scene, Gregory’s hand on his arm and his security detail lurking in the background. He tries to appear unaffected by the theatricality of the whole scene, but the photos that surround him make it obvious that he’s been under surveillance for weeks. An image of him and Sherlock sharing a cigarette under the awning of Speedy’s Cafe. _Months,_ his mind corrects. 

“C’est adorable _(How adorable)_ ! You think you’re in control. Zat you are trained for zis, oui?” he mocks. “Don’t worry. I am not here for your state secrets. I’m not even planning to kill you. You will return home without a single broken bone. I’m just cashing in on a debt,” he says with a wolfish grin. Mycroft continues to stare up at him, attempting to catalogue his face, mentally flipping through his files trying to place the man. He’s sure he’s never seen him before, but there’s something familiar about his round brown eyes. 

“You took something from someone close to me, Mycroft. Something I can not replace,” he says, clutching the picture frame. “Constance has been destroyed by you. Elle est ruinée _(She is ruined!)!_ My sister was ze only one in ze world who understood me. But, now zat person is gone and what is left is a shell.” The realization hits Mycroft immediately, and it must show on his face. His captor smiles. “Ah, you remember her, oui?”

Constance Delaux, a member of an international crime syndicate was responsible for the assassinations of several Italian and Chinese diplomats on British soil from 2012-2015. Interrupting a particularly brutal attempt on the life of the Chinese Foreign Minister in a warehouse in Crouch End, a special-ops team under Mycroft’s command executed a raid involving tactical explosives. Little did they know, the warehouse also housed various flammable chemicals.

Constance, along with two of Mycroft's agents, suffered debilitating chemical burns. In her case, there was not enough undamaged skin to graft. She was left permanently disabled and disfigured. Mycroft monitored her case closely in the months that followed, but as she had several difficult surgeries ahead, it was decided that in her condition she was no longer a threat. She must have recently been released into her brother’s care. 

“She cannot escape her own skin, Mycroft. Tant de cicatrices _(so many scars)._ Try to imagine how she feels. Soon, you will not have to. We are going to make sure you never forget what you took from her. From us. We tried with ze bombs at your house and at your club. Tit for tat as they say, but we missed ze opportunity. Zen you went out alone, et voila! Zis is better. Es-tu-prêt _(are you ready)_ , Mycroft?” the man asks, his question settling uncomfortably in the damp air around them. The tiny hairs on Mycroft’s arms rise to attention. 

“We go slow.” he says, as he raises the framed image of a young, smiling Constance over his head and hurls it to the ground. Even though he watches the frame fall and knows it’s coming, the sound of the shattering glass makes Mycroft’s muscles tense. Taking a deep breath, he squeezes his eyes closed. As they shutter, he catches Delaux bending down to grab a shard of glass in his peripheral vision, beginning to hum a song Mycroft knows but can’t place. He struggles against his chains, but they don’t give and there’s nowhere to go. He inhales deeply. In and out, and then in again in an attempt to steel himself against the pain he knows is coming. _You will survive this Mycroft_ , he tells himself. _Be strong._

\- - - 

When Lestrade arrives at 221B, the flat is buzzing. The door is open so he lets himself in, pushing past several men in suits who are mapping out Mycroft’s movements. Sherlock is overseeing the operation, eviscerating them one by one while simultaneously pinning what look like random clues to the makeshift caseboard on the wall. John, as always, is hovering nearby. 

Lestrade beelines toward the two blokes he saw with Mycroft at the scene that day. “You’re in his detail, right? I saw you with him. What the hell happened?” Greg raises his voice and pokes a finger into the chest of the dark haired one. 

Anthea’s head snaps up. She’s in the kitchen speaking in hushed tones to someone through an earpiece. “Mobilize your team now,” she says tersely to Lestrade. “We need to expand the perimeter.” 

Abandoning the useless security goons in the corner, Greg jumps into action summoning Sally, Anderson and six of his best PC’s from the yard. While they wait for his team to arrive, Anthea fills him in on what they know, which isn’t much. 

Mycroft’s detail reluctantly admits that he convinced them it wasn’t necessary to accompany him to drinks with the Detective Inspector at his own flat. “Morons!” Shouts from Sherlock’s corner of the room. 

“He was quite forceful about it Ma’am,” addressing Anthea. “We felt as if we didn’t have a choice.” 

“Idiots!” Sherlock rages as he pokes another pin through the wall with way too much force, and strings up a CCTV photo of the black Audi. 

Greg makes his way over to Anthea in the kitchen. “We’ll find him, yeah?” He says to her, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “Tell me what you know so far.” Together, they walk in the direction of Sherlock’s board. 

“Mycroft departed his office at 6:27PM according to the security feed. He’s seen getting into the back of his regular vehicle here,” she says pointing at the map on the wall. “Traffic camera footage shows the car heading in the direction of New Scotland Yard before making an unscheduled left turn at this intersection. After that, the car is no longer visible on any CCTV feeds,” She casts her eyes downward. Softly she says, “his driver and the car have not yet been located and the vehicle’s tracker has been disabled.” 

The working theory thus far seems to be that the kidnappers entered an alley or parking garage shortly after making that turn, where they ditched the Audi and transferred Mycroft to a different car. His driver, likely already disabled and the kidnappers at the wheel unbeknownst to Mycroft, who often rides with the privacy panel up. Find the Audi. Find the driver. Hopefully find Mycroft. 

Anthea, Sherlock and her team remain back at the flat working their channels while Greg and his depart for the intersection where the car turned. Their plan is to search the eleven parking garages and nine alleys wide enough to accommodate two cars, within a six block radius. 

Hours later, the car is eventually located in the 9th garage at 4:37AM, his driver James, found unconscious and bound in the Audi’s trunk. Anderson and Anthea’s MI-5 counterparts descend on the vehicle. A mismatched hair in the driver's seat, signs of a struggle over the center console, a muddy boot print in the back. Weak, but leads nonetheless.

Stepping back from the action to lean against the wall for a moment, Greg exhales. He fires off one more hopeful text. Knowing in the back of his mind that if Mycroft had his phone on him, he would have been in touch by now. 

Wedged under the seat out of Anderson’s sight, Mycroft’s phone buzzes. 

[4:59AM] Hang on. We’re coming. G


	7. Don't Let The Sound Of Your Own Wheels Drive You Crazy

The irritating - plink! - plink! - plink! - brings Mycroft back to his senses. The room is dark, but without windows there’s no way to gage how long he’s been alone. The metallic scent of blood makes bile rise in his throat. He takes a deep breath and winces. Taking stock of his injuries, shifting slightly with a hiss. He manages to push himself into a sitting position leaning against the wall to better assess the damage. More than fifty abrasions now criss-cross his arms, his upper body and his back, dried blood crusting over each. 

His captor did say he wasn’t planning to kill him. The cuts are not deep enough to be fatal, but each will leave a scar. He intends to “ruin” him the way he thinks Mycroft ruined Constance. He remembers the look of sheer pleasure his torturer got from inflicting each individual slash. At some point, Mycroft must have passed out from the pain. 

He is not unaware of his physical shortcomings. His hairline is receding and he’s gained weight in recent months. But no one sees his body regularly aside from his personal physician, who’s definitely seen worse before. He looks down at his injuries, which while gruesome, would be invisible under his suit and tie. _Ok,_ he thinks, steeling himself. _Now how to get out._

\- - 

Hours pass and the search party reaches a point of exhaustion. A new shift comes on, but Greg, Sherlock and John agree to continue. Sherlock’s frenetic energy is attributed to nervousness but Greg imagines the something he snorted in the kitchen when he thought no one was watching is probably the cause. Greg can’t worry about that right now. He himself is running on adrenaline and too much caffeine. 

49 hours after Mycroft disappears, they finally get their first solid lead. Sherlock had been pouring over the security footage of the garage where Mycroft’s car was found. He discovered a black Volkswagen Touareg that enters the garage earlier in the day, and is seen leaving minutes after Mycroft’s Audi arrives. They identify the plate, and someone gets in touch with the owner. No, they didn’t move the car. No, they don’t know where it is now. Suddenly the wheels of the case begin to turn.

Greg tips his eyes toward the heavens, thanking whatever god is out there for what seems like their first real clue. At some point in the last two days and change, he had begun to think of the missing man as his friend, and not just another victim. He’s not sure what changed, they’ve only had a handful of interactions, and thinking back, their email exchanges and texts were fairly casual. Maybe it’s the fear he sees hidden in the depths of Sherlock’s eyes, the frantic spiral he’s been in since Mycroft disappeared. Greg imagines Mycroft somewhere alone in the dark. His normally stoic expression pinched with fear. He lets himself feel that acutely, and it spurs him on despite his exhaustion. 

Mycroft seems like a solid bloke despite his serious demeanor. Someone he’d like to get to know better if the man would allow it. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there’s something guarded and perhaps softer that Greg imagines is hidden beneath. When they find him, he decides, he’d like to find out. 

His heart is racing. His brain keeps supplying him with the worst possible scenarios. Every minute they waste is a minute Mycroft could be subjected to something horrible at someone else’s hand. He’s seen the worst of people during his time as a copper. There’s no limit to the horrors one person can inflict on another. 

Anthea calls up the security footage on her computer and begins to review it frame by frame. The stolen Touareg is spotted by six CCTV cameras and neatly illuminates a route leading to the docks on the Thames. _Is he in one of the thousands of containers by the port? Or maybe on a boat? If that’s the case, is he even still in London?_ Greg’s mind plays out all of the possible scenarios.

\- - 

Alone in the dark, Mycroft’s entire body throbs. It feels like the hundreds of slashes that now litter skin have developed a pulse of their own. He can feel them thrumming, hot and painful. Each time Delaux comes back, he works his way down to a different area of Mycroft’s body. Making a show of selecting a piece of glass, and then when he’s finished, another dramatic toss into a small bloodstained pile near the door. The remaining shards from the frame left just out of his reach. Mocking him. 

The worst of the damage is now confined to his groin, in areas that haven’t been touched by another’s hand in years. Raw and stinging anew every time he shifts position. The deep cuts seemingly laugh at him as they refuse to close. Still chained to the wall, he’s been forced to relieve himself close to where he sits. He hasn’t been given food or water since he arrived so the need has been rare but when necessary, he tries to do so as far away from his spot as the chain will allow. Every action burns. 

Mycroft realizes his mind is failing him now. Usually capable of compartmentalization, color coding his emotions and putting them neatly into a cabinet drawer to be filed away for later. Now, it seems all he can feel is pain. And disgust. That he feels in spades. He’s astonished at his own weakness - that after only what must be just a matter of hours, he’s managed to deteriorate into this pathetic pile of waste. A disgrace. 

He shivers, but in spite of the chill in the room, his face drips with sweat. _Or is it tears?_ He wonders. Salty beads journeying down his cheeks, a few of them crossing paths with his dry and cracked lips. He thinks maybe the cuts have become infected, or perhaps it’s simply his body going into shock from the cold and the pain. In the beginning, he was confident they’d find him within a matter of hours. Now he wonders to himself how much more of this he can take. He knows they’re still looking, that Gregory will be worried. That Sherlock and Anthea will leave no stone unturned. He’s not sure there will be anything worth finding when they get here. 

His mind drifts to the decisions he’s made in his past that have brought him to this moment. Delaux’s sister could have been any one of a number of criminals he’s apprehended or thwarted over the years. He knew something like this was an eventuality. In his line of work, revenge is a currency everyone spends. 

Looking down at his body, he doesn’t recognize it amidst the sea of angry red lines. Delaux hasn’t gone for his face yet, but in the back of his mind he knows that he’s saving it for last. The ace in his hand. He concentrates on trying to focus his mind on the now familiar - plink! - plink! - plink! of the dripping from what he’s figured out is the air conditioning unit outside, letting it lull him again into unconsciousness. 

\- - 

Delaux goes for his feet next. Beginning with half inch nicks in between each of Mycroft’s toes, where he knows they’ll be the most painful, then trailing down the underside of his arch toward his heel. Right foot, then the left. The pain is shocking. Fire shoots up his nerves and he expels whatever was left in his stomach before blacking out. 

When he wakes again, he’s alone and feverish. Everything hurts to move, so he doesn’t. He thinks of what lies ahead for him if, by some miracle, they find him before he bleeds out. In his current condition, he can’t imagine continuing his work as before. Appearance isn’t everything, and his brain has always been his most valuable asset, but in his line of work, diplomatic relations does require actual relations. So much more is accomplished in person than behind a screen. 

He’s always possessed a certain self-confidence, and ability to bend people to his will whether by trust or blatant manipulation, but right now, he can’t imagine partaking in any of the glad-handing he’s done in the past. His stomach churns. _How did I get here?_ He wonders. He’s always been able to work his way out of troubling situations before. This feels different. For the first time in his life, he isn’t sure what lies ahead. A heavy feeling of hopelessness settles deep in his chest. It hurts to breathe.


	8. You Will Never Kill The Pain

Twenty police officers with search dogs and two squads from the security services descend on the London’s Gateway Port with orders to leave no stone unturned until they locate Mycroft or the stolen car. Crowbars and bolt cutters in hand, they methodically work their way down the rows of containers, cracking each one open and coming up empty. A helicopter hovers overhead, it’s searchlight panning back and forth across the rows of boxes lined up like matchsticks near the water's edge. 

Lestrade looks up as the whir of a drone buzzes by him. Equipped with thermal imaging technology, the drone is searching for heat signatures. Signs of life. _Please god._

\- - 

Less than a mile away, in a transport park, Mycroft awakes to a stinging on his face. _It’s time, then._ He thinks to himself. Eyeing the concrete where the shattered pieces of the frame used to lay, he notices only one more large piece of glass. A strange mix of gratitude and resignation settles over him. _Perhaps we’re nearing the end._ Delaux is artfully teasing the shard of glass in his hand from his earlobe up toward Mycroft's cheekbone. Large looping and meandering lines, almost like he’s tracing a design in his mind. For fun, he slides the shard across the inch-long scar Mycroft has above his right brow, sustained ironically from a flying piece of glass in the bombing of the Diogenes. Mycroft gasps and attempts to turn his head away. 

“Bravo, Mycroft. We’re nearly finished. Hasn’t zis been fun?” Delaux asks. The door creaks and Mycroft’s eyes snap up. With the help of a cane, Constance Delaux appears backlit in the doorway. A rush of bitterly cold air follows her in. In the distance, he absently notes the whir of the blades of a helicopter passing somewhere overhead. “I promised her she could finish.” Delaux smiles, placing the last big shard from the frame in Constance’s mangled hand. 

Overhead, the drone drifts westward toward the transport park beyond the port, the technical agent peering into the small screen in his hand. Suddenly three heat signatures appear, warm yellow and orange blobs outlining their movements on his screen. He jumps on the radio. “Sir, I think we’ve got them! Heat signatures showing three persons inside of what looks to be an office trailer on the edge of the port and Maritime Transport Park, a mile down the road. One person appears to be on the ground against the back wall, the other two standing.” 

Without waiting for backup, Greg breaks into a sprint, gun drawn, Sherlock and John hot on his heels. He’s never seen Sherlock run before, but knows John has a motor on him. He’s seen it on the pitch. The tech in his earpiece is guiding him now as he runs. Above them, the helicopter spotlights their path. Crossing from the port between two gates into the transport park, he sees more containers ahead, the office trailer standing out from the others because of an air conditioning unit mounted on the side. _We’ve got you, you bastards._

Slowing to a stop outside the trailer, John draws a gun Lestrade is going to pretend he didn’t see. A droplet of water lands square in the middle of his forehead and he looks up at the underside of the AC unit where beads of condensation wait with anticipation to take their plunge. They divide up, tiptoeing around the opposite side and meeting at the metal front door. Sherlock, unarmed, gestures to himself, raising a fist toward the door indicating he’ll knock. A distraction to wrong-foot the kidnappers. Greg nods and Sherlock approaches. 

Inside the trailer, oblivious to the officers gathering around them, Constance shuffles slowly toward Mycroft and lowers to her knees. - BANG! BANG BANG! - three quick knocks in succession on the door startle them all. Delaux and Constance whip around to the source of the noise, glancing back at each other. 

With a flick of her wrist, she gestures for him to see what the commotion is about and turns her attention back to Mycroft. She imagines it’s those Irish imbeciles her brother tasked with the initial grab coming to collect their fee. Delaux grabs the knob and twists, faltering backward as Sherlock pushes his way in the door, Lestrade and John right behind. Sherlock’s eyes immediately find Mycroft’s. _We’re here, brother mine,_ he says in silent conversation. _It’s alright now._ Mycroft’s shutter in relief. 

“Oh! We have company!” Delaux says playfully, almost as if the new visitors are friends dropping in for an afternoon tea. But John doesn’t hesitate, firing first at Constance, striking her square in the chest, then at Delaux, the bullet sailing through the center of his forehead. Constance’s body lists, her mouth open wide, shock in her round brown eyes, and she collapses on top of Mycroft’s prone form. He gasps as her weight seems to suffocate the sea of open wounds. Sherlock grabs her shoulder and hauls her body off him, dropping to his knees to cradle Mycroft’s face in his hands, wiping the blood out of his eyes with the pads of his thumbs. Whispering urgently but soothingly into his ear. John is already making quick work of his bindings as Greg breathes a sigh of relief.

“We’ve got him, Anthea. He’s alive. Barely. We need medical. NOW,” he barks gruffly into his radio. Outside he hears the helicopter hovering over them, the spotlight pointed at the trailer casting an eerie unnatural glow over the whole scene. He can hear the sirens getting closer. He makes a move toward Mycroft, knowing that if it were him, he’d rather be handled by a friend than a random paramedic. 

“Shove over Sherlock,” he says carefully kneeling down in front of the man so as not to spook him, peeling off his wool coat as he goes. Mycroft’s cheeks flame and he grits his eyes closed, though it’s hard to see his skin under all the blood, which seems to be everywhere. He shouldn’t have the strength to be embarrassed at the state they find him in: a naked, vile, bleeding mess, his own vomit, blood and feces nearby. But, the mortification is radiating off him in waves of hot, sharp shame. Greg’s eyes scan his injuries. Not a single inch of his skin from head to toe is untouched. Tears well in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Mycroft,” Lestrade says softly in the gentle voice usually reserved for adolescent victims. He drapes his coat as lightly as possible over Mycroft in an attempt to offer some warmth and privacy from the officers gathering outside. “We’re going to get you out of here now, yeah? It’s going to hurt - I'm sorry. It looks like they sliced you up pretty bad. I’m going to need to slide my arms underneath you to pick you up, ok?” Lestrade swallows, waiting for Mycroft's acknowledgement. Offering him some small semblance of control. Mycroft gives an almost imperceptible nod, eyes still squeezed closed. 

Mycroft looks pathetic, like an abused pitbull chained to the wall. John manages to pry the hook of the d-ring loose with the butt of his gun and the chains release themselves, clanging to the floor. Greg steels himself, knowing what he’s about to do next will cause his new friend immense pain. It can’t be helped. He carefully slides a hand under Mycroft’s shoulders, and another under his knees. He’s barely ghosting Mycroft’s skin as he sees the first tear appear in the corner of those stormy eyes. Mycroft’s face, otherwise devoid of emotion like he’s already disappeared within himself. 

“I’m so sorry Myc. I know, it hurts. It’s alright, we’re gonna get you help.” Greg babbles, the nickname falling from his lips without realizing. He uses his knees as leverage, and feels Sherlock’s hands slide beneath his armpits, carefully hoisting him up from behind. Mycroft gasps as his right arm and torso make contact with Lestrade’s muscular chest, and then whimpers as Greg adjusts his hold. He buries his face in Greg’s white shirt, unable to meet his eyes. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look the man in the eyes again. 

The fresh cuts on his face burn as they make contact with the fabric, but it’s nothing compared to the way the mortification sweeps through his heart. He inhales, and somewhere lingering beneath the metallic scent of blood, he can smell Greg’s distinctive scent, citrus and sandalwood with a hint of sweat. He let’s it anchor him as Greg slowly, carefully, makes his way to the door.

He abhors hospitals. It’s an irrational fear stemming from a long and lonely stay in what could generously be described as a Russian medical center early on in his career. Anthea knows it, and gives the tips of his fingers an apologetic gentle squeeze as Greg lays him down on the stretcher. A stray tear dripping onto their entwined hands. “I’m here, Mycroft. I’ll be with you the whole time,” she says, trying to reassure him. At the moment, Mycroft is in too much pain to care. 

She climbs into the ambulance after him, and adjusts herself so she’s sitting as close to his upper body as possible, fingers avoiding the open wounds but lightly wrapped around his own, grounding him. She cards the fingers of her free hand gently through his short dark hair, his scalp the only place on his body she can touch without causing him pain. His eyes meet hers, and she blinks away tears, trying to hold it together for his sake. When the needle supplying the morphine she demands after they hit the first bump slips into his skin, he welcomes the nothingness. 

\- - 

Greg’s team gets to work securing the scene and he steps away to check on Sherlock. John is whispering to him softly in the corner, a hand wrapped around his shoulder. 

“Alright, boys?” he says softly as he approaches. Sherlock’s face is a picture of despair. “He’s in good hands now, mate. The best,” Lestrade reassures him. “Why don’t you two head home and have a shower and something to eat. Anthea will be in touch when she knows anything.”

Sherlock begins to protest, but John is already turning him by the shoulders in the direction of the road. “Donovan,” Lestrade yells, “get one of the PC’s to drive them home please.” 

“Cheers Greg,” John says over his shoulder. “Call when you know something.” Greg nods and scrubs an exhausted hand over his eyes. Thanking god once again for the blessing that is John Watson. He’s never seen that look on Sherlock’s face before and hopes to never have to see it again. Sherlock is in John’s capable hands now. He knows the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft is contentious on the surface, but as evidenced by Mycroft’s backdoor mothering, and Sherlock’s quick action on this case, there’s definitely a deep love there. 

Driving home from the scene later that night, Greg thinks of the way Mycroft looked when they found him, and how it will haunt him in the days to come. His glassy eyes; the shame in the flame of his cheeks. He isn’t sure how a person recovers from something like that. The cuts on Mycroft’s body will heal but will surely scar, especially the ones on his face. His heart hurts for the man who he’s only known as strong. He vows to be there to support in any way he can. He’ll certainly need to keep an eye on Sherlock in the coming days, but wonders what, if anything, he can do to offer comfort to Mycroft. He thinks of texting Anthea for an update, but decides to wait to hear from her. 

That night, Greg tosses fitfully, unable to sleep. The day's events replaying over and over in his mind. Every time he closes his eyes, he hears the little hisses and noises of pain that Mycroft tried to stifle as he carried him out.


	9. I Can See That You've Been Hurting, Maybe I've Been Lonely Too

[7:07AM] Detective Inspector, Good Morning. I wanted to update you personally. Mycroft has been seen by the Emergency Room team, and his wounds have been treated and dressed. He’s been released into my care. From this point on, he will be monitored at home by his private physician. We are both immensely grateful for your assistance and professionalism throughout this ordeal. If there is ever anything I can help with in the future, you need only ask. A 

Greg hears his phone buzz on the nightstand and throws himself across the bed to grab it. He barely slept last night, waiting for word from Anthea. Her message is polite, but vague, which he expected. Mycroft’s early release from the hospital, however, is unexpected. He imagines his personal physician is more than qualified to oversee his care at home, but it seems too soon considering the extent of his injuries.

 _But how is he really?_ Greg thinks, unsure how to ask such a personal question of someone he feels he doesn’t know well enough to be entitled to an honest answer. The end of her message seems to be a dismissal but he replies anyway. 

[7:09AM] Thanks for the update Anthea. Have you spoken to Sherlock or would you like me to get in touch? Is there anything that you two need? G

Seeing Mycroft first hand will assuage his worries and while he didn’t ask outright, a delivery of coffee or groceries will give him an excuse to check on the man for himself. 

On a stool in Mycroft’s kitchen, Anthea takes another sip of coffee and smiles down at her phone, seeing right through Greg Lestrade’s little ruse. _The Holmes boys are fortunate to have him in their corner_ , she thinks. Her mind drifts to Mycroft upstairs in his room. When she last popped her head in, he was on top of the covers in his massive four poster bed shirtless, the sheets irritating the shocking number of bandages below his loose fitting pajamas. Some of the deeper cuts, including those on his face and feet have been left open to allow them to breathe. He hasn’t made a sound since arriving at home, other than a hiss or a grunt as he shifts position in the big bed. His eyes are open but unseeing. 

Years of training, compounded by years carefully constructing his public persona have taught him to suppress any sort of outward emotion or indication of pain. Subconsciously she’s well aware of this, but it doesn't rid her of the sick feeling in her stomach when she thinks of what he endured and will endure in the days ahead. She wishes she could offer comfort to him the way she would with friends in her private life. To wrap her arms around him. She knows it won’t be welcome. He’s fragile mentally and physically, and she’d hate to cause him more pain or discomfort. 

[7:11AM] If you wouldn’t mind I would appreciate your assistance in updating Sherlock. Mycroft isn’t accepting visitors at the moment, but you can reassure him that he’s in excellent hands. We do have everything we need here, but thank you for asking, Greg. I will let him know you asked after him. A

[7:12AM] Please do. I’m worried about him. I know that may sound weird, but If there’s anything you think of...anything at all, please let me know. G 

Another text follows shortly behind the first. 

[7:13AM] and do let me know when he’s ready for some company. G

[7:15AM] I will. He’s going to need support in the coming weeks, whether he’ll admit it or not. A

Greg sighs, reading her last note and flopping back on his pillow. _What a disaster._ Fortunately for Greg, Anthea ensured MI-5 had a handle on Mycroft’s case, taking care of the bodies and clearing John of any wrongdoing in a blink. One less mess for Greg to sort out today. He forces himself out of bed and into the shower. After a quick shave, he grabs for his thermos and is out the door. Another exhausting week of work ahead. 

The days that follow pass with sporadic updates from Anthea. He at least feels like he’s building a rapport with her. She's been more forthcoming with information, more candid. He’s offered to drop off dinner for them, to run to the pharmacy to grab his medications, all of which she’s politely rebuffed. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach hasn’t abated and Greg thinks it won’t until he’s had a chance to see Mycroft for himself. Sally leaves his favorite almond croissant on his desk, where it remains throughout the day until he sweeps it into the bin that night. He hasn’t had much of an appetite

He’s thought about texting Mycroft but knows his phone was eventually recovered in the Audi and isn’t sure if it’s been returned to him yet. It’s nearing 9PM on Thursday night when his text notification goes. He scrambles to for his phone. 

[8:53PM] I’ve just left him. You should visit. SH

[8:54PM] I want to, but Anthea says he’s not ready. G

[8:55PM] Go anyway. SH

[8:56PM] You git. I’m not going to expressly go against his wishes. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. How is he? 

[8:59PM] Go and see for yourself. SH 

Then Sherlock stops replying. He doesn’t want to bother Anthea again, he knows she has her hands full. Grabbing his laptop, he opens his email and starts a new draft. He wants to let Mycroft know that he's thinking of him and he’s here to support him in anything he needs. He figures an email is less intrusive than a text or even a visit under the circumstances. If he doesn’t want to respond, he can always just ignore it. 

Greg drafts, and re-drafts the email three times before he finally presses send. Not sure why it’s so hard to get the right words out. 

From: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

To: <<Unknown Sender>>

Monday, January 28, 9:37 PM

Subj: How are you?

_Mycroft -_

_Sherlock just texted to say he’s been to see you. I hope that means you’re feeling better and your injuries are healing. I want to stop by and see you too, to see for myself that you’re really ok, but Anthea said you weren’t feeling up to visitors._

_I’m not sure what to say other than I’m so sorry it took us so long to track you down. I won’t make excuses. I just wish we’d gotten to you sooner. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to suffer the way you did, and you wouldn’t be paying the price for it now._

_I know we’re not the closest, and you don’t seem like the kind of guy to be lovey-dovey and emotional with other people, but I’d like to think that our shared experiences minding Sherlock have allowed you to think of me as a friend; someone you can trust. I need you to know that you’re not alone in this. That as your friend, you can ask anything of me that you need._

_I would still like to come see you, if you feel up to it. If so, just tell Anthea and she’ll let me know. I’ll keep an eye on Sherlock, so don’t worry about him at all. Just focus on your recovery._

_I won’t hound you, just know I’m here._

_Greg_

Mycroft is dozing when the email comes through. His inbox has been filtered carefully to forward all work correspondence to Anthea, who is now managing his tasks, so this must be personal. Anthea softly places her laptop on the table and moves to retrieve Mycroft’s iPad. She notices the sender and shakes her head softly as she places the iPad within his reach so he can read it when he wakes. Mycroft is hurting. His pain is visceral as well as physical. She’d hoped that Sherlock’s visit would lift his spirits, but it only served to drive him deeper into himself. He tolerated Sherlock’s well meaning soliloquy about the benefits of trauma therapy for a whole seventeen minutes before closing his eyes and dismissing him. 

\- - 

Mycroft’s eyes pop open and he takes a deep stuttering breath, reminding himself he’s safe at home in his bed; Anthea just down the hall. His fingers curl in the sheets as if to make sure. _Pathetic,_ he chastises himself. He sees the iPad next to his hand, and shifts to grab it. Some of the cuts have begun to scab, making every movement feel tight- the skin straining and stretching as he leans for the device. His range of motion is improving, and he hopes soon to be able to move about more easily once the lacerations on his feet have scarred over, but for now, he spends his days in bed.

He sifts past a few emails from Sherlock, including a link to the website of a famed trauma specialist he’s vaguely familiar with. He has never seen a therapist, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s fearful of all of the things that would come tumbling out. He knows he’s struggling but in true British style, believes he can grin and bear it. Keep calm, and carry on, as they say.

He pauses when he sees Lestrade’s name and the mortification comes rising up inside him like a wave. It’s now the second time he has had to come to Mycroft's rescue, like some sort of helpless princess in a fairytale. He thinks back to the last time Gregory saw him. Disgraced and naked, bleeding and sniffling in Gregory’s arms. Closing his eyes, he recalls the way Gregory spoke to him, comforting him like a frightened child, pity shining in his eyes. _No. That simply won’t do. I don’t need anyone’s pity,_ Mycroft shakes his head. _It’ll only be worse when he sees how grotesque you look now,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. _That’s probably why he hasn’t been by yet_. He hasn’t seen a mirror since he’s been home; likely the work of Anthea. He can feel the cuts on his face tightening and can imagine he's a frightening sight. 

She’s been nothing but courteous and helpful since he’s been back, but he supposes she’s paid to be that way. He can tell she wants to do more, to comfort him if only he’d allow it. Instead she sits quietly by his side in silent support during the long days, anticipating his every need; trying to help him by doing things. It’s the only way she knows how. He appreciates it, but will never tell her outright. Their relationship isn't like that. 

He finally opens Gregory’s email, eyes scanning the text and then reading it for a second time. Gregory’s guilt is certainly not something he expected. It’s hardly Gregory’s fault that he was kidnapped by a madman. Mycroft imagines for a moment what their evening would have been like had they had the opportunity. He thinks Gregory would have enjoyed the whiskey and perhaps even his company. 

He considers the rest of Gregory’s words. He seems eager to help, to offer support in whatever way Mycroft needs it. The problem is that Mycroft has no idea what it is he needs right now. He’s not sure what “lovey-dovey” means but is certain that whatever that is, it’s not something he’s capable of right now, or ever. Greg is just being kind like Anthea. Professional courtesy because of his relationship with Sherlock. He thinks about responding, but his eyelids are heavy and before he can, a fitful sleep takes him again, awash with nightmares. 

Anthea finds him like this when she comes to say goodnight and carefully pries the iPad from his bandaged fingers. Greg’s email is open on the screen, and though she shouldn’t, she can’t help glancing at it; her eyes flying over the words. She shakes her head softly. Mycroft could use someone like Greg in his life, if he only knew how to accept what Greg was offering. She powers the device down, dims the lights and steps out of the room. 

\- - 

A week passes with no answer from Mycroft. _Maybe he was too forward. It was probably too soon to lay all that on him._ Greg thinks, again questioning his decision to reach out at all. He’s been in regular contact with Anthea though, who let him know that Mycroft is now able to gingerly walk around the flat with the help of a cane, though she’d been struggling to get him to eat. Greg wonders if sending something would be overstepping. He shoots her a note to ask. Surprisingly, she’s receptive to the idea. His face lights up in a smile behind his desk. _Finally_ , he thinks. _It’s not much, but it’s_ _something._

[4:37PM] Yes, I think it’s worth a try. Let me know when it’s ready and I can provide the address to you on a secure server. A

 _That’s a surprise_ , Greg thinks, remembering the “issue of national security” excuse Sherlock had given him a few weeks ago. He places a call to Giovanni. A few years back he’d recovered a stolen necklace for Gio’s niece. Since then, Gio has insisted he repay Greg with a lifetime supply of cake and pastries. Though it’s now well past the holidays, the agreeable Italian promises to whip up the struffoli he’d had Sherlock courier to Mycroft at Christmas, hoping it would bring a smile to his face. 

[6:15PM] Hi Anthea, It’s ready. Do you think I can drop it off? Or would it be better to have it sent straight from the bakery... I would really like to see him. G

He waits expectantly, holding his phone in his hand. He knows he's probably pushing it, and understands Mycroft may not be ready yet, but he’s hoping he’s wrong. 

[6:22PM] You may bring it over yourself. Address has been sent to you via an app that I remotely had installed on your phone. You’ll find it on the last page of your screen. It would be prudent for me to let you know he’s not doing well today. A quick visit would be advisable if he’ll tolerate it. I’m not planning to let him know in advance or he’d rebuff you before you even arrived. He’ll be angry, but at this point I’m desperate. Just be gentle with him Greg. A

[6:24PM] Thanks for the heads up. Promise to keep it short. Hoping a friendly face and a familiar pudding will help lift his spirits. G

Greg swings by Gio’s to pick up the box, wrapped in the same red holiday ribbon he’d done the prior batch in so Mycroft would know what it was without having to open it. Arriving at the address Anthea gives him, he’s not surprised to see it’s one of the more stately homes on the block. Elegant and imposing, like the man inside. 

The door opens as he’s nearly up the steps and Anthea comes out to greet him. She looks harried and tired. If the smudges under her eyes are anything to go by he imagines Mycroft likely isn’t the easiest patient. His heart goes out to her.

“Thank you for doing this, Greg. I hope whatever it is, he enjoys it enough to eat it. Frankly, I’m concerned.” 

“Yeah. Me too. You doing ok?” he asks, eyeing her with concern.

 _Sweetheart,_ she thinks to herself. “I’m fine. I’ll be better when he’s back to demanding things and rolling his eyes at the PM.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” Gesturing to the bag in his hand, he says, “well hopefully this’ll help. He seemed to like the ones I sent over the holidays.” Anthea raises an eyebrow at him. _Interesting,_ _she didn’t know about that._ Feeling awkward, Greg looks down at his feet. He’s reminded of the night Mycroft was taken. Of the assumption Anthea made that they were spending the night together before it all went to hell. “It’s important that he eats. He needs to keep up his strength if he’s going to get better,” he finishes lamely. 

She offers him a knowing smile. “Come in, Greg. He’s in the library.” 

He follows Anthea inside, wiping his feet on the mat at the entryway. When he looks up he’s amazed. _Bloody hell. It’s spectacular._ The space is open and airy, but not overly modern. Straight out of those home decorating magazines Lisa used to read. They could never afford the things she wanted for their flat on his salary alone, and she couldn’t be bothered to work. Another failure on his part, obviously. 

“Security services pays well, eh?” he says to her with a little smile. She huffs a laugh. “No comment.” Silently, she marvels at the way that the house appears to take a breath once Greg steps through the door. Maybe it’s the sudden shared weight of the responsibility that makes her shoulders feel a little lighter. Whatever it is, she’s glad he’s here. 

As he follows Anthea down the hallway to the library, it occurs to him that he’s not sure what awaits him. They’ve spoken about Mycroft’s condition in broad strokes, but he has no idea how the injuries have healed. _Whatever it is,_ he tells himself, _just act normal. That’s what you’d want if it were you._

Mycroft is already warily glaring at the door. The two sets of approaching footsteps echoing off the marble floor alerting him that Anthea is no longer alone. When Gregory peeks his head around the doorframe, Mycroft flinches and turns his head to face the wall. _No, no! Why would you bring him here?_ Mycroft is of course fully clothed, a long sleeve cotton shirt and pajama pants hiding the worst of his injuries, but under Lestrade’s watchful eye, he feels naked again. _She had not prepared me for this._ He thinks. _I’ve not prepared myself for this. Please leave,_ he pleads silently, wishing he could will Greg away. 

When that doesn’t work, he tries his best to be diplomatic, throwing his familiar cloak of formality around him, hoping to repel Greg with his lack of warmth. It’s been several days since he interacted with anyone outside of Anthea, Sherlock, and his physician. He’s not sure if the act is still convincing. “Detective Inspector,” he says, as though they’d never advanced beyond the formalities of their titles. His throat is scratchy from disuse. He coughs once to clear it and continues. “This is quite unexpected.” He doesn’t want to see the pity he imagines is waiting in Gregory’s gaze, so he pointedly avoids looking at him, choosing instead to direct his glower at Anthea. Gregory for his part doesn’t appear to be outwardly shocked by the brutality of the injuries on Mycroft’s face. _No doubt a very good actor,_ Mycroft thinks to himself. 

Mycroft looks... _pained_ , Greg’s mind supplies. The angry dark red lines wind and loop around his face as if someone took a marker and drew them on. Every twitch or movement of his facial muscles must cause them to tug. The pinched look is evident in the way he carries himself. He looks exhausted and dejected. Unsure, even. Greg’s heart squeezes. _Look at me Mycroft. It’s alright._ _They’re not that bad_ , he wants to reassure him. But it would be a lie. They are that bad and will likely only continue to get worse as they seal, and pucker in the weeks to come. Greg does his best to continue looking Mycroft in the eye, even if Mycroft won’t meet his gaze. 

He eases into the room with a small shopping bag in hand trying to lift the heavy cloud that has settled there. “Mr. Holmes,” Greg says, trying to put Mycroft at ease by playing his game, “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you up and around. Sorry to just barge in like this,” he casts a sheepish glance at Anthea. “But I just wanted to see that you were ok with my own eyes, and drop this off for you,” gesturing to the bag. Mycroft shifts, one of the scars sending a sting up his leg as it makes contact with the fabric of his pants. His grip on the arm of the chair he’s in tightens and he exhales through his nose. 

“I do so appreciate your concern. That’s very kind, but as you can see, I’m quite fine. Now that you’ve gotten the visual proof you came for, you may go.” 

Greg, nonplussed by the dismissal nods and steps forward, around a small end table, to place the shopping bag at Mycroft’s feet. 

“Yeah. I’ll just be off then. Thought you could use a little pick-me-up. Enjoy’em.” He hesitates. “It’s...well, it’s just,” exhaling, “just really good to see you Myc,” he says. Mycroft who’s looking down at the bag Greg deposited by his feet finally snaps his eyes up to meet Greg’s, the use of the nickname catching him off guard. The corners of Greg’s mouth lift into a small reassuring smile, gentle as if he’s afraid to scare him away. But, Mycroft does turn away from him in that moment. 

He takes the hint, and hastily begins his retreat, forgetting about the end table and bumping it accidentally on his way. A glass of water wobbles precariously on the edge before toppling off the side and shattering on the floor. “Shit, sorry!” Greg says, already on his hands and knees picking up the broken pieces. “Clumsy me.”

Next to him Mycroft has gone completely still, eyes shuttered. The only sounds in the room are the twinkling of glass as Greg sweeps the pieces into his cupped palm, and Mycroft’s harsh inhales and exhales, his hands in a vice grip on the arms of the chair. Greg looks up with concern. 

Anthea sees the entire situation unfold before her. “Detective Inspector, leave it. I’ll handle it. You should go now,” she says, already ushering him out of the room. 

Anthea is aware of what occurred during Mycroft’s captivity. She was in the room with him as he was being debriefed by Lady Smallwood, who questioned him two days after his return. Torn between wanting to vomit and wanting to cry, she sat in silence, vibrating with anger. Wishing she could revive the two monsters only to kill them again. 

When he was finished, she pulled Lady Smallwood aside in the foyer, and volunteered to write the MI-5 report on his behalf, so he didn’t have to recount his experience to yet another person. Lady Smallwood agreed. “He’s lucky to have you Anthea,” she said, glancing over her shoulder on the way out the door. “If there’s anything he needs, anything we can do at all, please know that we’ll move mountains to make it so. He is vital to the survival of this nation.” Nodding, though she knows Mycroft will never accept it, Anthea closed the door behind her. She gave herself a minute, leaning her back against the wall to shoving the things she was feeling deep down within herself before returning to him in the library. As she approached, she remembers seeing him sitting there, dejected with his head in his hands and her heart broke anew. 

Seeing Greg on his knees next to him, gathering up the sharp shards must have taken him right back to that awful dark place. She grabs a cashmere throw off the chaise and quickly tosses it over the pile of glass. She’ll deal with that later. 

Lestrade pauses by the door, suddenly putting pieces together. “Oh god,” he says out loud, pained. “Oh shit.” His face is pinched in anguish. “Mycroft, I would ne- ”

“Go Lestrade,” she says from her spot on the floor. She is now kneeling in front of Mycroft, her hands on both his knees. She’s whispering softly to him, rubbing small circles on his kneecaps with her thumbs. She’s never known him to have panic attacks before, but with the stress he’s been under lately, it’s hardly a surprise. His eyes are focused somewhere over her shoulder, his breathing still heavy. 

Feeling sick, Greg turns on his heel and heads for the door. _Jesus Christ Greg,_ he chastises himself. 

\- - 

By the time he’s able to get himself back under control, Greg is long gone, and Mycroft is mortified when he recalls the scene he just made. He’s never had a panic attack in his life. He’s a trained spy for god sakes. How is it possible that something so innocuous as a water glass falling off the table sets him off now. Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? He can’t live this way. 

_Good lord. I am pathetic,_ he thinks. _And Gregory. Oh god, Gregory. Kind Gregory, who came bearing gifts. What a pathetic display you put on today, Mycroft._ Disgusted with himself he drops his head in his hands. _You don’t even have real injuries. Not a single bone below the skin out of place. Weak._

“It’s alright, you know,” Anthea says quietly from her place on the floor, her hands still rubbing soothing patterns on the knees of his cotton pajamas. Mycroft shakes his head in frustration. _Hopefully Gregory will still agree to let Sherlock work with him if you haven’t scared him away._

“It’s decidedly not alright, Anthea,” he snaps. “I’m exactly what Delaux said I would be, a pathetic shell of my former self and it only took three days. If I lose the ability to function when a simple kitchen accessory breaks, how am I ever going to continue my work, much less go back out into the world?” 

“With help, Mycroft,” she responds pointedly. She’s now shuffled over on her knees to the discarded paper bag and is using her fingernail to pick at the knot on the red string wrapped around Greg’s box. 

“You have to let us in. Let us help you. I know you don’t believe it, but there are people in this world who care for you deeply. I’m starting to think the man who just left is one of them,” she says, finally able to loosen the knot. She slides her finger under the edge of the white box and opens it with a pop! A pile of gleaming struffoli sit nestled inside. Mycroft sees the contents of the box and his heart plummets again. _You are a disaster. You’ve ruined any semblance of a friendship you could have had with this man. After that display, you can’t blame him for running._

“Eat it,” she commands, holding the sticky pastry between her fingers, startling him from his self-castigation. Mycroft just stares at her. 

“Eat it,” she says again insistently, moving it closer to his mouth. 

“Anthea, don’t you da-” She smiles smugly as her fingers sneak past his lips and she pops the pastry in. The honey and orange explode on his tongue. It’s the first bite of food he’s been able to really taste since he arrived home. 

“You could do with the sugar,” she says, taking another for herself and licking her fingers. 

“Be patient, Mycroft,” she continues softly, more candid than she’s ever been with him before. “I know you’re struggling, and that’s alright. Just don’t run from us. Let us in.” 

Unfortunately, running is exactly what he decides to do next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for continuing on this wild ride with me, and for your lovely comments. I'm terrible at responding to them all but I read every one! I'll work on that :) 
> 
> Also, if you haven't realized yet- the chapter titles are lyrics from a variety of songs from American classic rock band, the Eagles. Happy to drop the name of each into the footnotes of the corresponding chapter if you want to give them a listen on your own. They're not necessarily meant to be played along with each, but I thought the specific lyrics spoke to the contents of each. 
> 
> I've doubled up on this chapter as a little Friday treat. There's so much more coming up right behind it that I'm eager to get posted. Enjoy it and have a wonderful weekend!


	10. This Voice Keeps Whisperin' In My Other Ear, Tells Me I May Never See You Again

Luca Ferroni is surprised to receive a reply to the secure cable he sends to Mycroft shortly after he hears of his ordeal. Constance Delaux is an enemy Luca knows well. Perhaps that’s why Mycroft feels obligated to respond. 

He’s always liked Mycroft. In the many years that they’ve worked together, he’s discovered the man has a wickedly dry sense of humor, a quiet contemplative way about him, and over many a shared bottle, an impressive knowledge of fine Italian wines. 

When it arrives, only two days after his was sent, Mycroft’s cable is stilted and awkward, no longer appearing at ease with himself or their fifteen year friendship. Almost as if he’s unsure of his footing, as if he expected Luca to retreat from him. 

Luca has read the report that Lady Smallwood had sent over. He’s glad Delaux is dead. His friend appears to be floundering though, and from behind his desk in Rome he’s not sure how to help him. He decides these conversations are best had over the phone. Italians are by nature, emotional creatures and he’s afraid he won’t be able to convey his feelings to Mycroft in a coded message. 

Mycroft had gotten his phone back shortly after he’d arrived home and had deleted most of the well wishing text messages without reading them. He had marked his conversation with Gregory as unread, saving it to digest later. Re-reading his last message: _Hang on. We’re coming._

Around 3AM the night after his very embarrassing meltdown over the broken water glass, Gregory’s messages continued. 

[3:04AM] Mycroft - I’m absolutely sick over what happened today. G

[3:05AM] That was terrifying. G

[3:08AM] I’m not sure what can be done to fix this. G

[3:10AM] It’s been nice getting to know you. I’ll leave you alone now. Don’t worry about Sherlock, I’ll keep an eye on him as always. G

Mycroft hadn’t responded to any of them, though he was awake watching them roll in one right after the next; like waves hitting him in the face as he sat too close to the shore. The first message had made him visibly flinch. His sleepless brain convinced that what made Gregory “sick” was the pathetic display he’d put on in front of him. He didn’t have the courage to engage with him so the messages went unanswered, and a river of silence widened between them. He had lain awake for hours thinking of Gregory, and how his friendship with the silver-haired DI might have progressed if none of this had happened. _No sense in delving into what-if’s,_ he tells himself. _It’s over now._

A week later, his phone buzzed again. Fearing it was Lestrade, he pointedly ignored it until it stilled. Leaning over to grab it, he was surprised to see that the missed call was from Luca. He let the voicemail play, the softly accented Italian soothing to his ears. He was worried, Mycroft could hear it in his voice. Their easygoing banter nowhere to be found. He wanted Mycroft to call him back. 

When the call finally connected, Luca was effusive about Mycroft’s rescue. He was calling to make sure that everything was “ _tutto ok_ ,” as he liked to say. Mycroft had always admired Luca’s ease with people. His energy and warmth filled the room like bubbles, surrounding you, making you feel like you were floating lightly among them. _Gregory has a similar quality_ , his brain supplied, and then shook his head. _Enough._

“Vieni stai con noi _(Come stay with us)_ ,” Luca had kindly offered, inviting Mycroft to join him and his wife Lina in Rome. An escape from London, and his life as he knew it. Lina, who he’d met several times at galas over the years was equally matched with Luca in wit and charm. 

He’d make for terrible company in the state he’s in both physically and emotionally so he graciously rejected Luca’s offer. “No, grazie Luca. Temo di non essere la migliore compagnia in questo momento. Ma grazie amico mio ( _No, thank you Luca. I don’t think I’ll be the best company right now. But thank you, my friend)_.” Mycroft responds in flawless Italian. He’d never considered their friendship before, but when he thinks about it, he realizes that Luca has always been there. Always been trustworthy and kind. A patient and understanding ear to commiserate about the disaster of the American presidency or partner on some of their more complicated missions. 

“Better yet,” Luca suggests, “if you are not up for company, vai in Sardegna ( _go to Sardinia)_ . Ho una casa per le vacanze in vicino a Porto Cervo. Usa questa casa per tutto il tempo che desideri. Respiri ( _I have a vacation home near Porto Cervo. Use the house for as long as you want. Breathe.)_.” Mycroft’s mouth opens to turn down the offer but something stops him. Maybe Luca is right, leaving Sherlock’s mothering, the destruction of his fledgling friendship with Gregory, and the ghost of Delaux behind. Space to breathe, as Luca had said, might be just the thing. 

“Va bene,” he finally says to Luca. “Forse la Sardegna mi permetterà di respirare. Non so come ringraziarti ( _Maybe Sardinia will allow me to breathe. I don’t know how to thank you.)_ ” 

“No need, old friend,” Luca responds softly in English. “Just take care of yourself, Mycroft. This will all be here when you get back. Avere Anthea contatto Marcella. Lei organizzera tutto ( _Have Anthea contact Marcella. She’ll organize everything)_.”

“Va bene,” Mycroft says again. “Grazie amico mio.” 

\- - 

“I’ve decided I’m taking my annual leave,” he announces one morning a few weeks later, as she’s placing a plate of eggs in front of him. The hand holding his plate doesn’t falter but in her mind a silent alarm begins to ring. In the nearly nine years that she’s been by his side, he’s never once taken advantage of the generous vacation package the agency offers. The myriad of lacerations all over his body are in various stages of healing, some still scabbing and others beginning to scar. Those on his face will have to be improved with surgery when they heal.

“Oh?” She says, trying to appear casual. His temper has been short recently, and she doesn’t want him to feel like she’s questioning his decisions. So much of his recovery hinges on him feeling as if he’s regaining control. However, a list of concerns is already neatly assembling itself in her mind. 

“Have you given any thought to where you’ll go?” Mentally a film reel of the various Holmes properties begins scrolling past her eyes. His parents' home, the cottage in the Cotswolds, the residence in Scotland, the flat in Paris, or any number of five star accommodations around the world. 

“Sardinia.” He says, definitively. It’s not what she expected.

“I've been in touch with Luca, and he has kindly offered to allow me to stay at a villa he has near Porto Cervo. It’s off season and it will be quiet. I need to clear my head, Anthea.” He says softly, seemingly trying to convince her - as if he needs her permission to go. “I am...I find myself....” he takes a deep breath, and continues. “I’m struggling.” The last words tumble out in a resigned whisper. She almost misses them as he speaks them into his chest. As if the weight of his admission forces his head off his formerly proud shoulders. 

The uncharacteristic confession makes her eyes snap up. She moves to rest her hand gently over his left one, which is tightly gripping his fork and looks at him pointedly until he’ll meet her gaze. He tenses for a moment instinctively and then after a beat, his fingers relax. They’re not usually so candid or tactile with each other, but the events of the past few weeks have peeled off a new raw layer of their relationship. She feels like she owes him some sort of acknowledgement or reward in return for his candor. 

She knows that simply voicing his pain must have been difficult for him, but as her mind settles around the idea, she realizes that she’s immensely proud that he’s taking a step to do something for himself. To take care of his needs for once without considering anyone else's. The nation and Sherlock will survive without him for a while. 

Luca Ferroni, the head of the AISE, Italy’s version of the secret service, has been Mycroft’s Italian counterpart for years. While she’d never known them to socialize outside of work, he is as genuine and reliable a contact as could be found in their circles. If Mycroft was going to accept anything from anyone, she supposes it would be Luca. 

“Alright,” she says. “Maybe a little time away from all of this, from London, is a good idea.” She thinks back to the hundreds of trips they’ve taken together and can’t recall whether they’ve ever been to the Italian island. “What day would you like to leave? I’ll arrange for the paperwork to be completed tomorrow, and will get in touch with Marcella to arrange the details and our flights.” 

Amidst the sea of scars, his thin lips curl into a small smile as he releases his hold on the fork, and flips his hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. She looks down at their joint hands noting that this is the most meaningful contact he’s permitted in the course of their working relationship, save for that horrific ambulance ride where she’d lightly sandwiched his bleeding fingers in between her own. 

“My dear,” he starts, looking down at their hands. Her thumb is now lightly ghosting his knuckles. _She knows this is difficult for you,_ he tells himself, marveling at her attentiveness, her unspoken effort to offer comfort. He’s unused to these types of personal overtures, but pushes through the awkwardness he’s feeling because he wants her to know. He needs her to know. 

He thinks of her nightly care ritual, her gentle fingers dusting over the scars he can’t reach, tracing each in medicated gel to improve their feel and appearance. The breakfasts she’s been trying to force feed him, a testament to her commitment to his well-being. The knowledge that she’s always nearby. Her silent support is the reason he found the strength to be able to recount his story to his colleagues, knowing that once the door closed behind them, she’d still be there to see him through what was an uncharacteristically emotional night. 

He dives in haltingly. “What you have done for me in the past few weeks…I don’t...” His eyes are suddenly glassy, his voice quivers and he swallows, attempting to get a grip on his fraying emotions. “You have gone above and beyond your purview these past few weeks, Anthea, in ways I could never have imagined.” 

She gives his hand a little squeeze and opens her mouth to protest, as if to say that there was no question that she’d have helped him, and that of course he could rely on her to continue to do so, but he presses on. “You must be aware by now that I don’t have many people I can consider true friends. It is important to me that you know that you are high up on that list,” he says, adjusting his fingers in her hand, pulling them up slightly away from hers. She straightens hers immediately, afraid she’s aggravating the scars on his knuckles, not realizing how tightly she’d been holding on. 

“One day, I hope to be able to thank you properly. This however, is a journey I need to take alone. I need to figure out who I am, in this,” he glances down at his hands, the red lines peeking out from the valleys between his fingers, rising over the peaks of his knuckles. “...in this new body. What, if anything, I’m still capable of.” 

She shakes her head at that. A tear escapes from the corner of her eye and it trails its way gently down her cheek. _How did we get here?_ She thinks. Only a few weeks ago, her boss had been the most important and powerful person in Britain. Now he is struggling to find any value in himself at all. Mycroft reaches up with his other hand to brush her tears away, noting that she doesn’t flinch as his mangled digits make contact with her skin. Another test she doesn’t realize she’s passed. 

“Alright.” She says with a watery smile. She sniffles, blinking away the last of her tears, and takes a breath to compose herself. “Alright." 

And then, "I’ve heard Sardinia is beautiful this time of year.” 

He exhales and his eyes finally meet hers. It feels like the pit that’s been sitting in his stomach has shrunk a tiny bit. He’s not sure why her approval mattered so much to him. She works for him after all, and not the other way around, but now that he has it, he feels relieved. Maybe enough that he could even stomach some of the eggs. He knows it will make her happy, so he lifts his fork and takes another bite. 

_Alright_ , she says again to herself. If this is what he needs, she’ll do everything in her power to make sure he gets it. She makes a mental note to call Marcella. But first, breakfast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning and happy Saturday! 
> 
> I want to apologize in advance to any Italian speakers here and beg forgiveness for my high school level proficiency. I just find the language so beautiful, it seemed a shame not to include it. 
> 
> Quick update: This will be the last chapter in this story, and a new one, nestled under the same Seven Bridges Road series will begin tomorrow. 
> 
> Ci vediamo dopo!


End file.
